Dear Church Family,

“This comes to Evan Seyfried's voice mail.”

How I dread hearing that recording! Because I know that, though my message may indeed come to Evan Seyfried's voice mail, it will most likely languish there, unanswered, for the next hundred years. Evan was never the master communicator even when he lived at home. He doled out tiny morsels of information about school and social life strictly on a need-to-know basis-and most of the time he figured we didn't need to know it. If a two-year old could be described as the strong, silent type, well, that was Evan. At 22, the description is still rather apt. The Navy's secrets are safe with our son.

Sheridan is better, but not a whole lot better. Unlike Evan, he's not a complete phonaphobe. But he likes to call at night, preferably after I've been asleep about three hours, eager to settle in for a nice chat. While I may struggle to consciousness long enough to talk with him, I rarely remember anything we said the next morning. His is the wacky world of the young New Yorker about town, for whom “day” and “night” are mere suggestions. My bedtime has become embarrassingly early, so we are quite out-of-sync.

It's cliché to observe that Rosie is a relatively good correspondent because she's a girl, but whatever the reason, we actually do hear from her with more regularity. What Rose does, though, is specialize in The Cliffhanger-the frantic phone call about the super-urgent matter. After we've talked with her, we stew and stew and finally call her back to find out what's going on, by which point all is (usually happily) resolved and she seems a tad bewildered that we're following up at all.

On the home front, PJ is a faithful phoner; that is, every afternoon when it's time for a ride home from football. Only Jules calls merely to gab, truly Joanie's granddaughter.

I am somewhat more successful reaching my children via e-mail, but am guilty of writing missives of such length that my recipients give up on being able to appropriately respond. So they often don't. Texting works better still; alas, I text the way I play sports: very slowly and very poorly. I threaten to join Facebook; so far it's just an idle threat, but one of these days…

It is a primal need of parents to communicate with their children, any way that works. And hearing back, however delayed the response, is a moment of the greatest joy. We know the kids are busy with life; we understand; we are patient (most of the time, anyway). It's just that we miss them, and love them so much.

And we are, all of us, God's children. And He yearns to communicate with us, any way that works. And He waits, patiently (all of the time), as we stay so busy with life. He understands. But He misses us, and loves us so much.

A prayer is a voice mail, an e-mail, a text message to Him. Whenever and however it is uttered, a prayer to our Parent is heard and cherished. Whether it be a one-or-two worder (“help” comes to mind), a late, late night conversation, a cliffhanger, or just a request for a safe journey home, He is all ears. When we worry about finding the right time, place, or words, we delay our response to the boundless love that is His daily gift to us. We need to relax about form and phraseology and just go for it!

And who knows? The habit of prayer may make gabbers of us all.

He's waiting to hear. Anytime is fine. Go on, drop Him a line.

Happy New Year!

Love,
Elise

Dear Church Family,

Another holiday season is upon us! I note, as our children progress from growing up to all grown up, there is a marked difference in how we celebrate. We no longer throw up, as a rule. Our eardrums do not rupture. We do not break out in festive spots. When the five kids were tiny, that was as much a part of special days as fireworks and Yule logs: the ill-timed illness. The New Year we toasted with Robitussin. The Thanksgiving when the temperature of the roasting children rivaled the temperature of the roasted turkey. The Memorial Day memorialized as the Chicken Pox Wedding. Pop an Advil with me, won't you, as we stroll down memory lane.

My own holiday health report growing up was none too good (like the four New Year's Eves in a row that I had strep throat), so I shouldn't have been too surprised. But, like most new moms, I entered maternity confident that my offspring would be Superbabies, the hardiest of stock. After all, staying healthy was a simple matter of proper diet, fresh air, and good hygiene, right? I nursed, I took them on brisk walks, I scrubbed my hands till they were raw. Results? Sheridan was in the ER with bronchitis over Fourth of July weekend. Evan endured a nasty bout of rotavirus, landing in Abington Hospital (week before Easter). Rosie had colic (Christmas), PJ had a whopping double ear infection (Halloween), Julie ended up in Abington with RSV, respiratory synticial virus (New Year's week). Seems the Cunningham sickness tradition trumped all my precautions after all.

For sheer drama, though, none of the array of childhood illnesses equaled the quadrifecta, the Chicken Pox Wedding. It was Memorial Day weekend, 1993. We were invited to our niece's wedding in Kansas City. More than invited, involved. Evan was ringbearer, Rose was flower girl. At that point in parenthood, we were so starved for fun and frolic that the prospect of a flight to Kansas with four kids under age 6 rivaled a Club Med vacay.

So, naturally, Evan came home festooned with red dots three weeks before the Big Day. After diagnosis, our pediatrician prescribed Aveeno baths and a calendar.if we could make it past day 21 we were home free, the rest of the kids would most likely emerge from this bout of the pox unscathed.

Wedding Day minus 1. Wedding rehearsal. Evan, a little scabby but otherwise adorable in his tiny tux. Rose, clear-skinned and cute in her flower girl regalia. Out of the woods, nearly!!

Carrie's Wedding Day! Sunny skies, happy guests, radiant bride. Evan does not lose the rings. Rosie does not lose her cool. The couple are united. It is a spotless moment in time.

Wedding Day plus 1. We are relaxing in my sister-in-law's home, watching the Indianapolis 500 on TV (this is a family from Indiana, so the 500 is sacred ground), anticipating a couple of days of R&R in Kansas City. Sheridan queries: "What's this red thing on my ear?" Simultaneously, Rose pipes up, "I have one of dose on my face!" PJ just squirms and scratches a red thing on his nose. We call Delta Airlines, pronto. Can we make it on board before a major breakout and our sure quarantine? Turns out, we can, barely. Our voyage home is a tense affair, tenser still because we can't seem to get Rosie to quiet down ("Hey, Mom, here's annuder pox!! And I see annuder pox!!" )

Home, to two weeks of more Aveeno baths and misery. Annuder holiday bites the dust.
I realize, with humble gratitude, that our parade of woes pales in comparison to families who battle truly serious illnesses. We have been lucky indeed to endure merely the usual aches and pains. But it has been sort of comical to note that many of our under-the-weather times coincide with "special" times on the calendar.

We live in this suspension, don't we? Happy/unhappy, good news/bad news? When all around us are dancing, how often are we in the doldrums? It can feel as if we live out of sync with the world.

But we are never alone. We have a God who is there through the happy and unhappy equally, the healthy and sick alike, the good news/bad news all the same. Out of sync with the world, we still live in sync with the One who made us and cares for us through it all. Who clears up those ear infections and tummy wobbles, in His time. Irrespective of the assigned dates of man-made festivity, our bodies travel through life, sometimes well, sometimes ill. All times loved. 

So this year we will probably not mark the holidays with Benadryl and humidifiers. But we will always remember the baby years when we did, when we shepherded our little ones past the shoals of those first small calamities. And we will marvel at, and give thanks for, the healthy young adults our kids have become.

Merry, pox-free Christmas. God bless us, everyone.

Love,

Elise

Dear Church Family,

The other night I was relaxing in front of the TV, remote in hand. Click.

“Bill Jones voted against the spotted loon protection act. He was in the bathroom during the vote on the Grumplesnort initiative. He once approved a hefty 1% pay raise-for himself! Bill Jones. Wrong for Pleasant Acres. Wrong for New Jersey. Wrong for the Tri-state area, wrong for the Planet Earth, wrong, wrong, wrong….”

Click.

Yup, it's that time of year! There's another milestone coming up on November 4th , in case I needed reminding.
And I got to thinking. A big, associated milestone is coming up for Rose. This month she will vote in her very first presidential election. I well remember mine.

OK. OK. 1976. You can do the math.

But I vividly recall feeling, in such an important way, like an adult for the first time. Being a good citizen. Casting my ballot. Helping to decide the fate of the nation.

Thanksgiving 2006 was a milestone for our family, the first without my mother. And while she was with us in spirit (how she hated cooking Thanksgiving dinner! We remembered the time she put the green bean casserole on the clothes dryer and we didn't find it till the next morning!) her physical absence was profoundly felt.

December 2007, another milestone-our youngest child became a teenager. As is so often the case with the baby of the family, Julie had already celebrated her “first rock concert.”

And so it goes. We measure out our lives in milestones, those events that mark the passage of our time on earth. Birthdays, anniversaries. Sleeping through the night. First tooth. Graduation. First date. First job. First home. Retirement. Each has a unique impact on us and those who love us. Some milestones are poignant, many joyful.

And, since we are the family of Christ, all these milestones are spiritual, too. Everyday life is a sacred thing, and needn't-shouldn't-be separated in our minds from what we do at church. There are special religious milestones, to be sure-Baptism, First Communion, Confirmation. Weddings, Funerals. But what about the in-between times? Shouldn't they be marked in a faith-filled way, bathed in prayer?  

I recently attended a wonderful conference called Milestones Ministry. We discussed the need, as a faith community, to help families find new ways to practice faith at home, and to make a stronger connection between home and church through the observance of life's milestones. I came away with an array of inspiring ideas, and I am hoping we may embrace some of them here at Christ's in the years to come. Wouldn't it be wonderful, for example, to celebrate all our new drivers (now there's a milestone for you. Most of us remember taking that driver's test, right? How many took it, ahem, more than once?) with a special blessing-in church? How about a blessing of the backpacks each year to mark the first day of school?

I immediately began to put one home idea into practice. Every night, and in the morning before the kids leave for the day, I make the sign of the cross with my thumb on their foreheads, to remind them of the One who travels with them every minute. So simple, but it's a way to acknowledge my parental role as spiritual, as well as secular.  
And so, this November, we will say a special prayer for Rose, for wisdom and discernment as she casts that first vote. We will bless PJ as he applies to college. We will think of a new way to bring faith to the holiday table at Thanksgiving.   

We all can mark our many personal milestones in the light of Christ's love, and so give them even deeper meaning. Milestones help us remember that our lives, after all, are gifts. And miracles.

So, let us pray. And celebrate. Together.  

Love,

Elise

SKYDIVING 

Dear Church Family,

“Look! Here they come!” The crowd gathers. A finger points upward; we crane our necks to follow. Suddenly, appearing in the clouds, a bright orange flash. Then a yellow. A green. A red. As we watch, the shapes form—parachutes. Spread out like multicolor stars in a blue, blue sky, they drift slowly down. From this distance, it is impossible to see human forms attached to these beautiful bits of cloth. Seconds pass. A minute. Now one chute, the first one seen, comes into sharper focus: there are two people attached to one another, suspended in the air. A tandem dive. Another. Here comes a solo. Gradually the 8 divers approach the earth, arcing gracefully in the breeze. And now, at last, it is possible to recognize individuals. There is Sheridan. There is Rose. The ride is almost over. They come to rest in the grass, surrounded by the billowy folds of their vivid parachutes. For the first time in 20 minutes (or so it feels), I take a breath.

They walk towards the airport, grinning widely. They greet me, words tumbling out fast—“awesome—so exciting—14,000 feet up— the view was so gorgeous—freefall was the best—so cold up there—felt unreal—can’t wait to do it again”. I am only half-listening, because I’m still muttering “Hail Marys” under my breath. They are laughing, joking around, relaxed and happy. My sweaty fists have yet to unclench. They are safe. I am a wreck.

So what else is new?

Adventure and I have a long history of pursuit and escape—it chases me, and I do my best to stay far, far away. Life presents frequent opportunities to cast fear to the winds and go for it, “it” being just about anything involving heights, water, speed, tight places, darkness, physical agility, and the list goes on. My motto: “Just say no.” The few times I have succumbed to pressure and given daring activities a whirl, I’ve been sorry. My first and last time snorkeling I was so seasick that, for the rest of my vacation, total strangers would come up to me and ask if I was feeling better. My first and last jungle canopy tour (in Costa Rica), I was so terrified of being in a harness in the air that I missed the tropical birds, the iguanas, the howler monkeys—indeed, I never once looked down, or around me (the whole point of doing this, I think). My idea of risk and thrills is going 30 in a 25 mile zone.  I find it both amusing and dismaying to realize that every single one of my kids is a million times braver than me. As is my husband. The whole bunch of them love long hikes to high, rocky outlooks, where they stand at the edge of the precipice and relish the sight of the world beneath them. I am afraid to even look at the pictures they take.

At my age I don’t anticipate a big change in my personality. Though they promise to take me with them on their daring escapades, my loved ones don’t seriously believe I would ever join them.

But there was a moment, a fleeting moment, that glorious late-summer Sunday when I got a glimpse of something more. For an instant, I saw Sheridan and Rosie falling from the sky, and for an instant I forgot to be afraid. My children took a giant and literal leap of faith, out of a plane and down, down, down into a world they love and do not fear. A world where life can be risky, but promises a rush of joy for those who dare to take a few chances. I watched my children, turned them over to the God who cherishes them, and I forgot to panic.

That rainbow of divers floating down from the heavens was so beautiful.

And if my heart filled with the wonder of that moment, I could only imagine how my kids felt. The rush of icy air. The chute opens, and freefall slows to drift. And there are lakes and fields and roads, dotting the distant landscape. The sun is so bright. It is so good to be alive.

I can only imagine a life filled with that feeling. They don’t have to imagine. The world is spread out below, and they can’t wait to dive in to it all. God grant me the grace to let them go. Joyfully. 

Love,

ELISE

Dear Church Family,

Last week, during our mission trip to Vermont, we visited a marble quarry and carving studio. It was a New England summer evening (meaning the bugs were out en masse to enjoy it as well). In addition to a tour of the quarry, we were each given an opportunity to use carving tools and try to make our mark on stone. While some of the kids did an impressive job, the rest of us had to be satisfied with hacking off a miniscule chunk or two. A look around the outdoor sculpture garden, and the beautiful works of art inside the studio, and we saw with new eyes the effort it takes to create a statue. As team leader Karin DeRuosi observed, sculpting is so different, because it is making art by taking away, not by adding.

It was a week of adding for us-we added buckets of dirt along a mountain trail, buckets of paint on a bridge, racks of clothes at the Salvation Army store, games and laughter to the Kids Club. We like to think we added something to the quality of life in Rutland by our work.

But when I look back, with new eyes, I see more beauty in what was taken away.

We arrived, tired but expectant, ready to be filled up with all the week had to offer. Hungry for fellowship, for fun, for hard work, for a deep spiritual experience. And every hour, there was a stripping away, an exposure of our weaknesses, our vulnerability. Every hour brought surprising developments, and as we had to adapt, we had to dig deep within ourselves for the resources.

We arrived without our technology: no cell phones, ipods, video games. No computers. No TV. And, despite some initial discomfort, we felt lightened. Lessened, in a good way. Less distracted. Less dis-engaged. Less encumbered by “stuff”.

We arrived as the CLC group, and found we needed to blend with kids and adults from two other churches. The circumstances threw us into an immediate intimacy when we formed work crews together. As acquaintances blossomed into friendships, we dared to expose our true selves, at work, at play, at worship. There was a shedding of formality and pretense as we all plunged into this exciting new experience.

All of us had to shed our normal standards of cleanliness and grooming, as the extent of our daily beautifying ritual was an ice cold, three-minute shower. I saw (and smelled) clothes that had been worked in. Hard. I saw hair untouched by blow-dryers, faces without  makeup. Last week, these ornamentations were suddenly not important. And so they fell away.

It is easy to think of God as the Divine Painter, creating a breathtaking world of color and light and shape with His brilliant brush. Painting a rainbow. Adorning the trees with beautiful birds. But last week I came to see God as the Sculptor. We come to Him, solid flesh and blood. And He chips away. Hardships. Tragedies. All change us, take away our comfort and complacency. Reduce our pride. Opportunities. Challenges. He chips some more, revealing a strength within us. Compassion. Honesty. As He carves, something begins to emerge from the blocks of marble that we are. Our very essence. And, because of the artistry of the Sculptor, that essence shines. It is new, stripped down, exposed, revealed. And if we are willing to let God shape us, we can see even the harshest moments of life with new eyes. We were created, and are in the process of being re-created. God wants to make us beautiful works of art. And, down in our very core, that is what we can become.

So maybe we are less than we were before we came to Rutland. But maybe, just maybe, less is a whole lot more.  

Love,

ELISE

EXERCISING MY OPTIONS

Dear Church Family,

Isn’t running wonderful? Racing through the streets in every season, pulse pounding, legs aching, body sweating…hooray for running. What a super way to get into shape!

And the gym! The perfect spot when the weather is inclement and you still want your hour or two of heart-rate-elevating activity. Treadmill, stationary bike, CNN on the big TV…what’s not to love?

And exercise videos! My collection ranges from the classics (Jane Fonda, circa 1988) to“Awesome Abs in 10 Days” to a hip-hop kickboxing routine. A veritable library for the home fitness buff!

And now, summer, with its plethora of choices! Swimming, hiking, tennis, softball, hang gliding, surfing…a million ways to move in the great outdoors!

Not that I do any of this, mind you.

I hate exercise to the same degree that I love coffee—wildly, immoderately. Physical fitness, like decaf, is for others, those poor souls who want to live long, healthy lives.

Seriously, though, I know in theory that exercise has much to recommend it. For one thing, cute workout clothes. I’m trying to think of a second thing. Give me a minute. No, I’ve never had that “endorphin high” that the true athlete raves about. For me, working out is like hitting yourself in the head with a hammer. It feels so good when it stops.

For many years I kept in fairly decent shape by acting. Once in awhile I would attempt a class (yoga, jazzercise), attend sporadically, do poorly, and drop out. Nowadays it is only my perpetual state of nervous energy that keeps me relatively slim. Otherwise, I am a true computer potato, tappity-tapping away all day, getting up at work only to walk next door to the office, and then only when I can’t convey the message by shouting. There will come a day when my legs will buckle beneath me, I’m sure, from lack of use. Until that day comes, I will probably exercise nothing but my flying fingers.

Steve doesn’t have many chances to work out besides his very aerobic performances, but when he gets a minute, it’s off on the bike, or to the basketball court. He knows what’s good for him, and he does it. The kids emulate him much more than me—even the “non-sporty” ones still clock many a daily mile striding down city streets. When the five Seyfried children are together, they exercise by choice! (Picture the Kennedy family at Hyannisport, substitute a Frisbee for touch football). I enjoy watching them out the window, as I sit at the dining room table with my fortifying cup of java. 

Why (and I can’t be the first to have noticed this) are the things that are good for you so much harder and less appealing than the things that are bad for you? Why do I not power-walk down to visit a neighbor, munching a healthful apple? Why do I climb into the car for this one block odyssey, munching a Dunkin Donut if one is handy? All the fitness statistics in the world have not, so far, altered my behavior a whit. I’m stuck, mired in my bad habits. The excuses are many, and spring quickly to my lips. And even if I tried to change now, I reason, it would take me forever to get into shape, and forever I ain’t got.

My body is a precious gift from God, and I see fit to leave it under the bed collecting dust.

The Christian life is full of “exercises” that can be just so much easier to skip. But the true Christian does not see the homeless man and pass by. The real Christian helps to build the Habitat house, serves at the soup kitchen, visits the shut-in. These are not the activities that will enlarge a bank account, or aid a climb to the top. But they are the acts of love that should take up much of our days; instead, it is all too tempting to let the world’s priorities dictate our own. And so the years pass. Our “giving” muscles get flabby. Our spiritual Nordic tracks rust. We settle. We settle, when we know we are called to do and be more, so much more. Just as I know that I should exercise, even a little bit. And I don’t. 

Maybe it isn’t too late to try again. I can certainly make a start. Hang up the car keys and step away from the Twinkie. And while I’m at it, work on some of those other bad habits of mine (and they are legion). There is time, after all. I can honor the gift of my health, and do what I can to maintain it. I can push back against society’s priorities, a worthwhile exercise if ever there was one.

And I can decide: how will I shape my tomorrows?

Love,

 ELISE

MNEMONIA

Dear Church Family,

Just ran into a neighbor in the Acme. She was warm, friendly, and obviously knew who I was. I know this because she called me by name. As I stood there, squirming by the freezer case, 10 different names crossed my mind for this woman. Jennie? Jeanie? Joanie? Bob? (well, maybe not Bob). I ended the conversation, which was filled with references to a husband and kids whose names I also could not recall, by calling her “honey”. This was a cop-out, though not out of character for me. I am a “sweetie-honey” sayer by nature, as you probably know. In this regard, I would do well as a waitress at the Melrose Diner (“More coffee, hon?”) Anyhow, I walked away from the encounter distressed. On to the cereal aisle, where I stood for several minutes trying to summon up Julie’s special request. Mini-wheats? Frosted flakes? All-bran? (well, maybe not All-bran). Oh, I made a grocery list. I just didn’t remember to bring it. At the checkout counter, I rifled through my purse frantically looking for A) my Acme Supercard, B) my American Express card, and C) my car keys. All were located, but my concern was understandable, as I have left these three items on counters all over Southeastern Pennsylvania at one time or another.  To cap off this Adventure in Amnesia, I pushed the shopping cart up and down the lot looking for my car. How hard could it be to find an Elantra? Pretty darned hard when, as it turned out, I’d driven the minivan to the store. 

Chatting with friends in Club Menopause with me, I realize this malady is not uncommon in us fiftysomethings. Many of us enter rooms for unknown reasons, pour milk for absent children, wash our hair twice in the shower (just to be on the safe side). But for me, the sad thing is, I used to have a really good memory. Really. I could recall entire conversations from years past, what I wore on my first date with Steve, my telephone number from 1961. And now, pfft. Gone with the wind.

It took me quite awhile to avail myself of various mnemonic devices—the little tricks that prop up a failing brain. And most of these, I still forget to use. One idea I did embrace: I kept journals for each of the kids when they were tiny, so I’d have a record of their cute sayings and doings. For years, they stayed securely in a bookcase in our room. As I write this, I have just found the journals, after a panicky 24+ hours of combing the house for them. They had migrated, quite logically, to the attic, under the Christmas ornaments. Of course, where else?

What we remember, and what fades away, fascinates me. It has nothing to do with desire, I’ve concluded. How else to explain that, 27 years later, I can no longer recall the sound of my sister Maureen’s voice, yet the lyrics and tune of a 27-year old McDonald’s jingle remain ever-fresh?  How can I quote our production of Cinderella accurately, chapter and verse, yet ALWAYS leave the oven on during dinner? It’s quite annoying.

Where was I going with this? Just a second ... Oh, yeah!

When I was little, I had what I firmly believed was a very strong memory of being in Heaven before my birth. There were the requisite clouds and angels, and a really benevolent, grandpa-ish God. Apparently I got to request my parents, and was sent down to earth on something resembling a playground slide. And, for awhile, this “memory” was as real to me as anything I knew. I knew that God had loved me before I was born. At some point I let go of this vision of Paradise, teeming with babies placing orders for their future families. But I never let go of the feeling. The feeling of being loved before I could love anyone myself. Loved by my parents, certainly. But also loved by Someone else, before, during, and after my life.

So, I hold to the feeling, and the sense that I am me and no one else for a reason, whatever that reason might be. And as I stumble and slip absent-mindedly through this world, I sometimes wander into a profound Truth: that I may be adding something memorable to the human story just by living my life. God is using me daily (and if ever there was a leaky vessel for His Grace, brother, this is it). Nevertheless, He finds a way to continue the story through me.

One of my favorite hymns is a relatively new one. Ken plays it every Maundy Thursday. The title of it is God Remembers. The lyrics remind us that God remembers pain. God remembers love. God remembers us.

And if God remembers, maybe I can relax when I forget.

Love,

ELISE

Dear Church Family,

You've lived in your house a looonnng time if…

You can remember having a slide shaped like an elephant in the back yard

also a wading pool

and your child is almost 24

A tour of the house yields a wealth of memories, just based on the damage alone- scratches on the living room floor (tap dancing), the gouge in the wall behind the bunks (bed jumping), the crack in the garage window (lacrosse practice), the mysterious dent in the dining room table (still a mystery)

Everyone has, at one time or another, slept in every bedroom

You haven't had to worry about new phone numbers or forwarded mail since 1988.

Next June, we will be in our house 20 years. Now, I realize in this area that is no record. Here, many people tend to remain in their neighborhoods, if not their same houses, for lifetimes. I remember being introduced to someone who told me she “wasn't from around here.” She was, as it turned out, from Flourtown (perhaps a foreign exchange program brought her to Oreland). For me personally, our longevity is nothing short of remarkable.

I was not a child of the military; however, my dad was a salesman who quite often switched jobs. By the time I was a junior in high school I had attended 8 schools in 3 states. Every couple of years it was time to pack up our duds and head on out to the next adventure. As we were pretty inept packers, even with all that practice, we left a trail of belongings wherever we went (or threw them away by accident in our moving frenzy).

Our dwellings tended to be a little on the quirky side. For quirky, read: bad heating systems, leaking roofs, bugs, and basements you could float a boat in every rainstorm. There was the poorly built apartment by the highway in Atlanta, that shook with the passing of every vehicle outside. There was the isolated New England house beside the cranberry bog, 10 miles from town (Mom didn't drive; Dad was on the road all week. Perhaps we should have thought that one through). Then there was the New York house whose former owners had 14 children (yet only one bathroom!).

When Steve and I first married, the vagabond life continued for awhile. As actors, we lived where the work was (Alabama, Tennessee, Florida). Once we went on a children's theatre tour, and literally lived in motels for almost 2 years.

When we began our family, I wanted nothing more than to settle somewhere, to put down roots. When child #3 came along and we outgrew our starter house (also in Oreland), we moved one final time. And here we are to this day.

Staying in one place, especially to raise kids, has its definite advantages. One school system, one group of neighbors, one church. Yet there are times I long to break free, to call the moving company, to hit the open road once again. To get rid of half the stuff we own. To wake up in a new town, to meet all new people. Our children seem to have similar longings, now, though they will probably tell you they enjoyed not having to move, then. So far, the oldest 3 are in NYC, Annapolis, and Boston. They have seen France, Brazil, Thailand. Even Flourtown. And the world looks pretty good to them, pretty exciting. Settling down is for later-much later. Now is the time to look at Mom and Dad, waving, from the rear view mirror.

And so. Life. You move; you don't move. You know your surroundings intimately; you're constantly surprised by something new. So what is home? Home is not a zip code, new digs, or a residence of 20 years. Home is the feeling of belonging somewhere. Home is knowing someone is there for us, around the corner or around the globe.  If we can think of God as a person, we can also think of Him as a place. Home. Our Home in the world, and beyond the world. A Home we can never leave, no matter where we go. Or where we stay.  

Sometimes, I marvel at the depth of the roots I've put down, after all that wandering. And having been both, I still don't honestly know what I'd choose to be: oldtimer or newcomer. But as a child of God, I do know that wherever I am, there I am. Home.

Love,

Elise 

Dear Church Family,

Oh no. Spring again. How embarrassing.

Our neighborhood is filled with carefully mown lawns and meticulously tended gardens, erupting in a riot of color and fragrance, virtually our own branch of the Philadelphia Flower Show.

And then there's our house.

We purchased a home whose former owners were gardeners of such talent that even in the Wonderful Land of Oz that is East Oreland in springtime, ours was known as “the house with the beautiful yard.”

 For about two months.

At the end of that time we had pretty well polished off the delicate blossoms and started destroying the hardier plantings. Our mimosa sprouted fungus, our daffodils drooped, and our tulips tanked. Ivy crept over the flower beds. Then we killed the ivy. Our grass promptly took the cue and died too. The little birdies skipped our perches in disdain. Even the squirrels, not known as the pickiest creatures in the animal kingdom, seemed to give the exterior of 122 Apel Avenue a wide berth.

And things have only gone downhill from there. Other yards evoke the meadows of Provence, or the pristine flower gardens of the English countryside. Our yard tends to evoke downtown Baghdad.

It doesn't look like we even try, but actually we do (or at least Steve does). We mow, we prune, we weed (or at least Steve does). My forays into the great outdoors tend to just cut a wide swath of destruction, so I try to stay away. Still, the yard seems to know, somehow, that someone with the black thumb of doom lives nearby. The dandelions and gout weed know who's in charge. They are.

I don't get it. I love flowers as much as the next person. I would never deliberately commit planticide, and yet, spring after spring, I do. (You have possibly read of my prowess with pets; I bat .000 in that department too.  Indeed, it seems the only thing I can raise is children.)

Sometimes I think of our yard as a metaphor for life. (Well, it's not good for much of anything else!) We are given a Paradise to enjoy, a riot of color and fragrance, of peace and harmony. And what do we do? We barrel through, stepping on the flowers, tearing up the trees, destroying everything in our path. We may be able to keep a semblance of order on our front lawn, but if you just take a peek in the back there is rot, there is ruin. And we don't mean to, we would never deliberately, make such a mess of things. But we do.
We have a Gardener who is available to us 24/7, a Gardener who can help us rake up the moldy leaves and feed the parched grass, who can free the flowers from their bed of choking weeds. A Gardener who can help us make a Paradise again. And we don't even call Him. And so on we struggle, black thumbs against His green one.

But there is, always, a Spring. And with Spring, hope for another chance. With the Gardener by our side, we can wrest beauty out of the most colossal mess. The sun is a little brighter, a little warmer, every day now. While there is life, we can still learn. There's still time to make our gardens grow.

The Yard of the Month Award may be absolutely out of the Seyfrieds' reach. But this year, if we really try, we just may have a shot at Most Improved.

Love,

Elise 

Dear Church Family,

How was your day? Today was a “bad parent” day for me. But then, I often use labels  like “bad parent,” “sloppy worker,” or “crummy wife” days. Yes, when it comes to taking guilt trips I must have a very good travel agent.

When I can't sleep at night, the TV in my head is well-stocked with episodes of America's Biggest Mess-ups, starring me. Adulthood has provided a rich mine of regret, remorse, and embarrassment. When the adult memories have been played, I can reach back into my youth for a wealth of other examples. Take the time I forged my father's signature on a test paper (I was in first grade, and I think the “Tom Cunningham” in all printed capital letters probably tipped Sister off). Then there was the eternal fighting with my parents and sisters, so very often instigated by me. I'd bend Father Farriker's ear with an impressive laundry list of sins in the confessional, then promptly go out and do it all again, sometimes starting before I even got out of church.

On other restless nights, as a change of pace from guilty, I just feel sad. Sad that the world is such a mess. Sad that my kids will inherit that mess. Sad that I am so very ill-equipped to do anything much about it.

But I have heard of something beautiful and inspirational, a thought to help banish some of my shadows. It's the Jewish concept of Tikkun Olan. The English translation is “repairing the world.” Here is the Jewish legend that inspired Tikkun Olan. It seems that, early in history, something happened to shatter the light of the universe. It broke into millions of pieces, and became millions of sparks living in all of creation. Mankind's great purpose is to look for, and collect, those pieces of light in each corner of the earth. The sparks that dwell in all the people we see, all the people whose lives we touch. In gathering up the light, we each play a part in repairing the world.  

Our purpose in life. Every one of us. We can each do our part. In fact, we are called to do our part. We are, it turns out, both capable and qualified. It begins by finding and honoring our own sparks of light from the universe. For me, mine might be found by peeking under the layers of excessive self-criticism (which, after all, is a form of self-pity). And, having found our sparks, we can live into our grand purpose, our divine calling. We can spend our days here searching for light, for goodness: in our families, our friends, our neighbors, and, yes, our enemies.

So, some nights now, when I can't sleep, I think of another image. I see myself, I see all of us, gently gathering up the light around us, fireflies twinkling in the darkness. I see the ball of light growing bigger and bigger with each small, but vital, contribution to the effort. I feel my own inner light growing stronger, illuminating even the darkest corners of my soul. When I think of Tikkun Olan, I feel a new power, the power of a very imperfect child to nevertheless help restore this imperfect world to divine perfection, the shining whole it was meant to be. There is very little room for sadness and self-pity in a life charged with such an important task.

And so, as we look forward to the joyous springtime of the year, let's get busy. All of us, the guilty and sad, the wounding and wounded. There's so much light out there to be found. And we have our job to do.  It's time to repair the world.

Love,

Elise 

Dear Church Family,

My joy of cooking finally gave out.

Well, not my joy of cooking, but my first copy of The Joy of Cooking: the tattered, torn, gravy-splattered Bible of the kitchen. It owed me nothing. After all, I had used it nearly 40 years.

I remember the day I got it, as, of all things, a 10th birthday present. For the record, my other gifts that year were a Polaroid Swinger camera, bright orange fishnet stockings and a very “mod” newsboy cap. Ah, the sixties!

While the other presents came and went, Joy became a cherished friend to this budding chef. I was fascinated by all things culinary, even as a preteen. This is not because I learned the secret of flaky pastry from Mom, or a smooth Hollandaise from Grandma. Au contraire. I come from a line of truly horrendous cooks.

When I was little our family lived in New York City. Nana and Pop Cunningham (Dad's folks) lived just a few blocks away. Every Monday and Thursday Nana would pick me and my sister Maureen up from school and bring us back for dinner at their apartment. That gave Mom a break, and time alone with baby Carolyn. We loved spending evenings with Nana, who spoiled us silly. But dinner at Nana's was, shall we say, an experience. It generally involved “roast” (roast what, we were never quite sure). It arrived on the table still rolled and wrapped in butcher's twine, charred beyond recognition. Several times we ate some of the twine, unable to distinguish it from the meat. Pop was her perfect “other”, as he had the original cast iron stomach. Indeed, Pop was partial to breakfasts of cold canned baked beans, strawberry ice cream and 4 or 5 cigars. They were quite a match.

On the home front things were not much rosier. Mom was a militant non-baker, and the TV dinner queen. Vegetables were what you ate on Thanksgiving, if Mom remembered to open the cans. It was, I imagine, with relief that Mom bought the cookbook, and turned the oven over to me.

It was a new day in the Cunningham kitchen. Armed with Joy, I started producing beef Wellington, asparagus amandine and chocolate soufflé. I wasn't really interested in learning scrambled eggs or meat loaf, so typical weeknight dinners ran to Coq au Vin and veal Orloff. Our grocery bill climbed; we all put on weight. But I discovered a love for preparing food that has never left me.

I wish I could say my kids learned flaky pastry and smooth Hollandaise at my knee, but, I confess, I am a kitchen control freak. My secret recipes remain secrets. The boys can cook respectably now, but no thanks to me. How Rosie ended up learning to bake so well is a small miracle.

As I sent The Joy of Cooking to the big bookstore in the sky, I found myself saying a little prayer:

Dear Lord,

Thank you for the gift of food, and the gift of delight in its preparation. Remind me to untie my apron strings, and give my family a chance to discover the fun of cooking for themselves. Remind me, too, that food is only a small part of dinner. We are fed, most importantly, by our loving relationship with those who share our meals. I hope, someday, my kids remember my pasta primavera, and me, even a fraction as fondly as I remember Nana's burned toast and Mom's mystery casseroles. And with a fraction of the love I feel when I think of these two, horrendous cooks and wonderful, wonderful women. The joy of cooking is nothing compared to the joy I'll feel when I see them again in Your Kingdom.

Amen.

Love,

Elise 

Dear Church Family,

A couple of years ago, I was strolling on the boardwalk at Rehoboth Beach with the family. I guess my, shall we say, audible voice could be heard above the din of the crowds and Funland rides, because a little one walking a ways behind us caroled out, “Mommy! I hear Snow White!” I felt like quite the celeb, believe me. Angelina Jolie, eat your heart out.

Yes, I confess. In my “other life” I am Snow White. In fact, I am a parade of characters, ranging from Robin Hood's deputy to Peter Pan. As an actress in our children's theatre company, Family Stages, my “dress up” urges have been fully satisfied now for 25 years. While I am now not nearly as bouncy as I was in my prime, and my performances are quite rare these days, I can still troup on when the need arises. I realize that a 51 year old Cinderella requires more than the usual “willing suspension of disbelief”, but I retain other skills that serve me well onstage.  I may forget to pick up my child at soccer practice, but ask me any line from The Wizard of Oz and memory always serves!

Acting is an interesting job. It is a chance to inhabit another body, a different character than your own, make believe (and bring the audience along for the ride). It's a challenge to get there, but in the zone you can really lose yourself in the artificial reality of costumes and set. Scripted dialogue seems just like your own original utterings. Adrenaline enables surprising physical feats on the stage (I once fell and broke my wrist in the middle of a show, finished the whole show, THEN went to the hospital).

Of course, there is a danger in the profession of becoming too much of a chameleon, hiding your real self from the world by playing characters, indeed losing touch with who the “real you” might be. But isn't that a danger for us all at times? Isn't it easier to pretend to agree with an opinion we oppose? Don't we waste time just going through the motions of life, mouthing the same dialogue and repeating the same scenes day after day?  Haven't we all woken up some mornings and asked ourselves who we really are?

If, to quote Shakespeare, “All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players”, how does that make us feel? Maybe like bad actors, flubbing our lines and missing so many of our cues. Maybe trapped in a role we dislike, in a play we wish we could rewrite. Maybe powerless in the hands of some Great Producer-Director, who knows every step of our choreography before we dance.

But there is good news, fellow performers.

Perhaps the world can be seen as a stage on which the story of our lives is acted out. But we are free. Free to improvise as much as we like, to revel in the wonder of our being, and our being exactly where we are in time and space. The Lord has given us the reins, and lets us make our own choices every minute of every day. We don't have to be trapped by past behaviors. We don't have to continue to say, and do, and be, things we dislike. We can work on getting things right. And we can also relax and let ourselves flub our lines once in awhile. God never meant for us to savage our own performances like a nasty drama critic. He loves His ragtag band of players. He enjoys watching us live, and grow toward Him like flowers toward the sun, as we age, and learn.

Our play can be a glorious collaboration, with our fellow actors and with our God. We can weather the storms and sorrows of Act 2, believing that, when the curtain falls, a heavenly ending awaits.

So go on, live your life with all the zest and joy it is in your power to create. Step into the spotlight with confidence, and make your story a beautiful one.

It's showtime.

Love,

Elise 

DECEMBER 2007 

 
Dear Church Family,
For the past couple of weeks, I have been reading the huge bestseller by Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love. It is a collection of 108 stories, the same number as a string of prayer beads, describing Gilbert’s incredible journey over the course of one year. Fresh from a painful divorce and long bout of depression, she decides to spend 4 months in each of 3 “I” countries: Italy, India, and Indonesia, in search of joy and spiritual fulfillment. She studies language with a handsome young Italian, eats and drinks incredible food and wine. She meditates intensely at an ashram in India, fighting fatigue and discouragement until breakthrough moments when she has a transcendent experience of God. She travels last to a healer in beautiful Bali, Indonesia, and there dares to find a way back to love.

Here’s a Yuletide announcement. I have had a difficult few years, and I now am planning to spend 2008 following my bliss. I will spend 4 months living in each of 3 places beginning with “K”: Kenya, Katmandu and Kalamazoo. I will write about my amazing adventures in the LINK exactly 11 times (the same number as LINKs in a year, coincidentally), and I shall return a happy and spiritually enlightened person. If I think of it, I shall send you a postcard.
Just kidding (though I’d love to take a crack at finding the Divine in Kalamazoo).  And just jealous. I would love nothing more than to travel the globe like Ms. Gilbert (who actually wrote a terrific book, filled with vivid descriptions, humor and insight).

After reading, it was time for high school movie night. Our film: The Pursuit of Happyness, based on a true story. Chris Gardner is a down-on-his luck young salesman facing financial disaster, with a young son to raise. He takes a very long shot: an unpaid internship at a huge brokerage film, with the outside chance of a job there after six months. Those months seem to be a downward spiral: his wife leaves him, he can’t make rent payments, and finally he and his boy are living in a homeless shelter.  Through it all, Gardner clings to the hope that he can make a good life for his family, that his hard work and tenacity will pay off, that some sunshine will come after so much rain.

Chris’s story is inspirational in a very different way than Eat, Pray, Love. But both tales could accurately be described as “the pursuit of happiness”. We are dealt such different hands in life. We yearn for different things, have different standards of contentedness. For some, it has to be just about survival. For some, it’s about delving deeply into the meaning of our lives. For most of us, it’s some of both.

However we define happiness, we are born wanting it.

And here’s where I believe God enters in. His is the divine mind that made ours, and He delights in our efforts to experience Him intellectually and spiritually. His are the loving arms there to comfort us, our home when we feel homeless. No matter what curves life throws us, He is the essence of true happiness, and He promises that to us for all Eternity. Whether our earthly reality is like Liz Gilbert’s, Chris Gardner’s, or somewhere in between, some understanding of His unending love for us is within our grasp.

Love,