Today’s NYTimes mini-crossword had a word I’d never heard of before: Zarf. It’s defined as “the peculiar term for the cardboard sleeve around a coffee cup.” Is this something you’ve ever come across before? Nope, me neither.
The cardboard coffee sleeve (or “zarf”) was invented in 1991 by Jay Sorensen. He later patented it under the trademarked name “Java Jacket”. They are now commonly utilized by coffee houses and other vendors that sell hot beverages dispensed in disposable paper cups. The story goes that Sorensen came up with the idea after driving his daughter to school and spilling a cup of hot coffee in his lap. The Java Jacket first appeared at the Seattle Coffeefest in 1995. Soon Sorensen and his wife Colleen were overwhelmed with requests and orders to fill. And the rest, as they say, is history.
On the drive back from the National Forest today we followed a beat-up old Ford pickup with a gun-rack and one of those coiled rattler “Don’t Tread On Me” stickers in the rear window. This guy was going way below the posted speed limit on a two-lane twisty mountain road. Which led me to wonder, what is wrong with people in this country? If yer gonna fly “Don’t Tread On Me,” the least you can do is break a few traffic laws. I mean, WTH!
Thanksgiving is coming soon. This is America’s great secular holiday as never imagined by President Lincoln: An orgy of overflowing food and non-stop football. As is fitting on such a day, even people who don’t regularly practice saying grace before meals nevertheless will take a moment to say “thanks.” In our house, we always say “Thanks for cooking” to the cook. And when called upon when I was younger, I’d usually offer up the standard farm-boy Thanksgiving form: “Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub.”
This year, however, I find myself giving thanks for two great women of faith. Both are stellar writers. Both are habitually, brutally honest. And both are just plain funny as hell: Anne Lamott, and Nadia Bolz-Weber. The first wrote the below meditation on “Saying Grace” which I’ve pirated wholesale from FB. The second is preaching tomorrow at St. John’s Cathedral in downtown Denver. It’s been over a year and a half since we’ve all gathered together in one place. That’s reason enough for a hearty giving of thanks. Me personally, I can’t wait.
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Here‘s a Thanksgiving piece written for Parade many years ago
by Anne Lamott
We didn’t say grace at our house when I was growing up because my parents were atheists. I knew even as a little girl that everyone at every table needed blessings and encouragement, but my family didn’t ask for it. Instead, my parents raised glasses of wine to the chef: Cheers. Bottoms up. Dig in.
But I had a terrible secret, which was that I believed in God, a divine presence who heard me when I prayed, who stayed close to me in the dark. So at six years old I began to infiltrate religious families like a spy — Mata Hari in plaid sneakers.
One of my best friends was a Catholic girl. Her boisterous family bowed its collective head and said, “Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts. …” I was so hungry for these words. It was like a cool breeze, a polite thank-you note to God. The silky magnetic energy of gratitude. I still love that line.
I believed that if your family said grace, it meant you were a happy family, all evidence to the contrary. But I saw at certain tables that an improvised grace could cause friction or discomfort. My friend Mark reports that at his big southern childhood Thanksgivings, someone always managed to say something that made poor Granny feel half dead. “It would be along the lines of ‘And Lord, we are just glad you have seen fit to keep Mama with us for one more year.’ We would all strain to see Granny giving him the fish-eye.”
Because I grew up around alcohol and unhappy grown ups, I was very watchful, like a tiny air traffic controller. I noticed some families shortened the pro forma blessing so they could get right to the meal. If there were more males than females, it was a boy-chant, said as one word: “GodisgreatGodisgoodletusthankHimforourfoodAmen.” I noticed that grace usually wasn’t said if the kids were eating in front of the TV, as if God refused to listen over the sound of it. I also noticed that praying families were in no better shape than mine.
Later I noticed how often people are held hostage by grace-sayers, who use the opportunity to work the room, like the Church Lady. But more often, people simply say thank you. We understand how far short we must fall. How selfish we can be. How self-righteous. What brats. And yet God has given us this marvelous meal.
It turns out that my two brothers and I all grew up to be middle-aged believers. I’ve been a member of the same Presbyterian church for 36 years, 35 of them sober. My older brother became a born-again Christian. But don’t ask him to give the blessing, as it can last forever. I adore him, but your food will grow cold. My younger brother is a sort of freelance Irish Catholic. So now someone at our holiday tables always ends up saying grace. I think we’re in it for the pause, the quiet thanks for love and for our blessings, before the shoveling begins. For a minute, our stations are tuned to a broader, richer radius. We’re acknowledging that this food didn’t just magically appear. Someone grew it, ground it, bought it, baked it. Wow.
We say thank you for the miracle that we have stuck together all these years in spite of it all. That we have each other’s backs and hilarious companionship. We say thank you for the plentiful and outrageous food. Kathy’s lox, Robby’s heartbreaking gravy. We pray to be mindful of the needs of others. We savor these moments out of time, when we are conscious of love’s presence. Of Someone’s great abiding generosity to our dear and motley family. These holy moments of gratitude. And that is grace.
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Nadia Bolz-Weber, newly installed pastor of public witness for Saint John’s Cathedral, will be preaching at all three services on Sunday, Nov. 21st. She is a New York Times bestselling author and founding pastor of Denver’s House for All Sinners and Saints.
“…our dear and motley family” in 1958, shortly before I was born. That’s great-grandma Hoffman, middle left, giving everyone the “fish-eye.”
One big advantage of having this blog is that, unlike on FB, I don’t have to worry about trolls and cranks leaving untoward comments. Not that there aren’t trolls and cranks among my readers – far from it. In fact, some of them are among my nearest and dearest. But since I get to moderate the comments… well, you know.
Another big advantage of blogging is that, when the spirit so moves, I can, with total impunity, post something a little off the beaten track of cartoons and puppy memes. Well, today is such a day. Allah be praised.
Rachel Held Evans was a young mother, blogger, and progressive firebrand. She died unexpectedly following an allergic reaction to antibiotics. For many of us, her passing raises uncomfortable questions about life and faith. Most notably, for me at least, is this: Why do the good so often seem to die so young? And why must we all be subject to death in the first place?
Original Sin
Like me, Rachel Held Evans started out Evangelical but ended up Episcopalian. One of the hallmarks of the Episcopal faith is its penchant for encouraging hard questions without resorting to ready-made answers. The easy Evangelical answer to “Why death” is, of course, Original Sin. The basis of this doctrine is outlined by the Apostle Paul in the 5th chapter of his Epistle to the Romans. You can read it for yourself here if you’re so inclined. There are much better apologists than me for whatever brand of faith (or non-faith) you prefer. So, rather than a defense or an attack, let’s move on, shall we?
Natural Selection
The Darwinian answer to “Why death” is that this is how room is made for speciation and change. An organism that lives forever in a closed biome eventually chokes off adaptation, ultimately leaving no place for offspring. Each new generational roll of the genetic dice presupposes that previous generations eventually pass away. Evolution takes the long view: Not the “selfish gene” so much as adaptation to the environment over the long haul.
Of course, this does nothing to answer the question about the good seeming to die so young. That I blame on our perception of what’s news and what’s not. When Rachel Held Evans dies at age 37 with two young kids in tow, we sit up and take notice: Not because it happens all the time, but precisely because it doesn’t. It’s the exception rather than the rule. That’s what makes it newsworthy.
I guess the other thing I’d say on this subject is that the needs and wants of an individual are often at odds with the longer view of the species or the society. And just the thought of uttering those words out loud is enough to bring out the worst of the anti-social trolls from under the bridge. Well, better get used to it, folks. Because none of us lives forever. And “no man is an island entire of itself.”
A word of encouragement
The moment I start quoting John Donne, you know it’s time to wrap up. So, RIP Rachel Held Evans. And to anyone grieving a personal loss this day, I say, take heart. Not because of any promise of so-called “eternal life.” But rather because, whatever the long-term outcome may be, in the here-and-now, you are not alone. In the long run and in the short, that’s what makes all the difference.
Sometimes ya gotta give to get. Give a caption for this cartoon – link to New Yorker cartoon contest #780 is here – and continue to get humor, news, and more from the good folks at dewconsulting.net completely free of charge. Who could ask for anything more?
Your caption here for cartoon contest #780.
“Bill was so close to retirement, but we couldn’t bear to see him go.”
I know, I know. Some of you haven’t been back to the office for a couple of years now. Some of you are long retired. And some of you work outdoors. But I bet all of you know what it feels like to be trapped in quicksand every now and again. So, have at it. What have you got to lose?
Halloween is in the rear view mirror. Black Friday is just around the corner. With only 45 shopping days until Christmas, here’s this further wisdom about Retail Therapy for all you folks out there.
Here are a few pix for fall. The first two were taken a week or so ago at Arrowhead by my favorite visiting cousin, KJF. The next two are by my better half from a recent trek up Waterton Canyon. The last are before-and-after from our rental place in CA. Kudos to Ken’s cleaning crew whose great work saved me a trip to Sac this time around. All part of making the case for extra reimbursement against the world’s worst Airbnb guest ever. I mean, SRSLY?
I don’t golf, but ya gotta admit, the scenery’s kinda pretty.
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With this new knee she’s picked up the pace to where I’m gonna need a horse to keep up.
