Cribbs’ Chronicle

Ahem…

Test. Test. Ooo, that’s a hot blog…

A quick post from New Jersey.
Like always the drive up sparked a thousand thoughts regarding the New Jersey Turnpike and driving etiquette in general. Thankfully I found comfort in an old saying of my Nana’s, “The road to a friends house is never long,” and just my shere excitement about being here this weekend. A full day of fun…and a possible trip into NYC awaits! So glad I brought socks because right now there are beautiful snowflakes falling from the sky. Much more upon returning home.

Advent. I love it. Absolutely love it. I always have.
Growing up we always had dinner together as a family and the table was typically lively with conversation. We had after dinner chores - clearing the table, helping put food away, doing the dishes. We didn’t have a dishwasher until I was in high school so doing dishes meant doing them the old fashioned way…filling up the sink, adding soap, etc., which presented an amazing opportunity for me to perform dish detergent commercials to an audience of tea towels and tupperware. Oh my. I’ve gotten completely off the subject. Right…Advent.
After dinner during the Advent season we would stay around the table a bit longer to pray together as a family. My mother would carefully move the wreath from the hutch to the center of the table and my siblings and I would take part in the ancient Christian tradition of fighting over who got to light the candles. My brother would impress everyone (well not really my parents) by passing his finger back and forth through the flame without it catching on fire! I could never do it. I was always too afraid.
By far the best part of the whole family prayer experience was when my father would lead us in a verse of O Come O Come Emanuel. He’s never been a master at getting lyrics right. (The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.) He would start on some note that came from 50 feet underground and his voice kind of bounced of the glass in the china cabinet and seemed to circle over our heads. My brother and I would have to close our eyes to try and maintain our composure. We knew what was coming…something that would sound a lot more like “rancid captains” than “ransom captive.” The anticipation…the excitment…the controlled breathing to keep from busting out laughing. Sure enough it would happen. The wrong words would be sung. The kicking would start under the table. We would hold our breath and bite the inside of our cheeks. But it couldn’t be contained. It would start with a snort and a kind of choking sound but would quickly move to all out belly laughter complete with flailing arms and tears running into leftover peas on our plates. It was tolerated by our mother for a brief moment and then there was a look that said it all - this was prayer time. Eventually we would gain composure and could continue with the prayers and then fight over who got to blow the candles out. What brings me the most joy in recalling those nights of Advent is that year after year my parents never gave up on us. They never let go of creating a family tradition because our laughter got in the way or our candle lighting/blowing out squabbles were to hard to deal with. They perservered and challenged us but more importantly kept inviting us into the experience. Wow!
As the cards start to come in the mail with pictures of the Holy Family, I am grateful for the opportunity to reflect on the holy moments I’ve shared with my family over the years. Laughter and all.

I’ll own up to it. I’m a Christmas geek. I love the lights, the smells, the sounds, the candy canes, the decorations…I love it. I remember one year when I totally Martha’d out and made only edible ornaments for the family Christmas tree. Unfortunately the giant cookie stars and moons with royal icing were a bit heavy for the tree and it toppled over in the middle of the night. But when the cookies crumbled, the house was filled with the scent of gingerbread! I get extra excited about the little details the Christmas season brings. I have an inner sense of when the cups turn red at Starbucks. I can feel it on my tongue in early November as the pumpkin spiced latte starts to lose it’s appeal and my taste buds start whispering, “peppermint mocha.”
I was in Starbucks this morning enjoying some casual conversation around the barista station with my fellow mochaholics when a sign caught my eye. It was advertising all of the Christmas drinks Starbucks offers. You know them…the gingerbread latte, eggnog latte, and the choice of elves everywhere - the peppermint mocha. The sign said something like - joy in a cup - and showed incredibly happy people with whip cream on their noses and sprinkles that runneth over their snowflake embellished mugs. I just kind of stared at it for a minute or so. (Um, I had the time because the woman in front of me ordered a grande quad shot extra hot high maintenance latte…or something like that.) The people in the picture certainly looked joyful. One of the guys was looking up as the snow fell on his head and was sniffing his beverage. That’s a good time. And one of the ladies was obviously laughing as she held her beverage with her boot laden foot kicked backed behind her. The foot kicked back into the air with head thrown back laughing…I’m pretty sure that’s the international symbol for feeling groovy. But can you really find joy in peppermint syrup or a sprinkling of nutmeg? Happiness perhaps, but not joy.
Yes, it’s true, I’ve found some cheer in a good cup of coffee and who wouldn’t don a grin from ear to ear over pink sugar sprinkles? But eventually the marshmallow fluff deflates and syrup separates and sinks to the bottom of the cup and your left with not much to smile about. So where’s a girl to find absolute joy then? Faith. Thankfully for us Catholics the joy of our faith reaches far beyond frappacinos. Ours is not a seasonal joy but a lifelong joy that gets even better when we leave this world and join Christ in the next. That alone is worth kicking your foot in the air about. Ours is not a joy that comes from pretty packaging, but one that reaches deep into the crevices of our brokenness and calls us to be healed and to be healers. The joy of our faith shines even brighter when we align our sufferings, the injustices of the world, and even our doubts with the victorious cross of Christ. Yup, joy in the suffering. Lift it high, ya’ll. Imagine that on a Starbucks sign.
Once again I’m humbled by a God who uses the ordinary moment of buying coffee to remind me of the extraordinary - a Love so real, boundless, and pure. Drink it in.

I spent some time talking to a colleague the other day who was down and out because she just can’t seem to keep her office clean. This was written a while back, but in honor of youth ministers everywhere with that “pile o stuff” in the corner, 2 containers of wasabi peas you just know somebody is going to eat one day, and a red white and blue fiber optic Christmas tree…that spins - this one’s for you.

I am the protector of the Oreo’s. I am the youth minister.

A first grader wondered by this morning and commented on the state of my office. She was eloquent and full of insight. She spoke with authority. Her voice was clear and her tone was one of great surprise and seriousness. Her message was straight forward as she blurted out “Wow! You have so much stuff!!” Her proclamation was followed almost immediately with the question, “Why?”

The answer of course is, well….because.

Well, because I am the youth minister. “Youth Minister” comes from the Latin root word “yo.” Translated into modern English we know “yo” to be a greeting or a form of calling out to a person. “Yo! Serve my people.” Yo! Feed my sheep.” Yo! Let them come to know Christ through the ice breakers and the pizza.” Ahhh, a calling. Hencetotherefor, those of us who have responded to the call of sharing the Good News with the young, are known as Youth Ministers. Did you follow all that? (Welcome to Cribbs-Logic 101. Please take out your #2 pencils.)

Youth Min-ISTRY is the implementation of that calling and requires a great deal of prayer, energy, sensible shoes, and stuff. Youth Ministry is boundless and the adventure of a lifetime. Youth Ministry may call you in any direction at any moment. “Yo! I need a band-aid.” “Yo! Do we have more soda?” “Yo! Prove to me why going to Mass is important.” And in response to that call - my office is full of stuff.

I’ve got christmas lights, a bubble machine, Bishop’s documents, and coupons to Pizza Hut. I’ve got a plastic golf set, t-shirts, and ski poles. I’ve got 3 crowns of thorns, a television that only get 4 channels, and a years supply of paper products. I’ve got soda, chips, cookies, kiddie pools, a shoe piñata, and a 3 foot palm tree made out of paper mache. I’ve got goggles, magnetic fish, an emergency manicure kit, and Clifford The Big Red Pig who collects change for the homeless. I’ve got quotes, lists, bibles, and the catechism. I’ve got chile lights, candles, crosses, and glow in the dark magic markers. I’ve got work camp flyers, 3 copies of Finding Nemo, and a baggie that has 3 Oreo’s in it with a note taped to it that says “DO NOT EAT.” I’m not even sure why I have it but I was told it was important for me to protect.

I have stuff. I am the protector of the Oreo’s. I am the Youth Minister. I am called.

Somehow, at some point in my life, I’m not sure when, I got caught up in a “To Do List” mentality. I didn’t learn it in school or at a workshop. It just somehow, became a part of who I am. I suppose we could blame it on society and the influences of too much television as a child but I don’t remember Mr. Rogers, Captain Kangaroo, Bo and Luke Duke, Kelly, Sabrina, Chris, Hong Kong Phooey, or even The Bionic Woman living off of a To Do list. But I’m okay with blaming society if you are.
It must have been a gradual occurrence because it’s not like one day I was playing Barbie’s and the next day Barbie had to write down her list of errands before she hopped into her Corvette and made laps around the basement floor. But if she did, her first stop would have been the gas station because there were only three wheels on her car for years.
If I look back close enough I’m sure I could probably find the point in my life where things started to shift from being and happening to doing and accomplishing. But Memory Lane isn’t on the To Do List today, so we’ll never know. And so there we have it. Here I am, a “To Do List” girl praying to become an “It Would Be Nice If” girl. It would be nice if all the things on my list got checked off at the end of the day. But the reality is that it usually doesn’t happen that way. Don’t get me wrong - this isn’t a long drawn of blog disguised to promote slacking and procrastination. That’s a long drawn out blog for another day. I’m just praying to change my mentality when it comes to the tasks and work before me. Yeah, it would be great to look at my list at 5pm and see a little check mark next to every item. A good day’s work with all things done, accomplished, and neatly filed under “Go me!” But somehow in striving for a clean desk and all phone calls returned within 1 business day (okay 6 business days) I have lost site of embracing sacred distractions and the holiness of work unfinished.
Sacred distractions. Holy interuptus Batman! Those little, and sometimes big, things that come up during the day that we don’t expect. The come in all shapes and sizes. Phone calls from family members, unexpected visits from teens and parents, an ant infestation in the youth room, a power outage, a broken printer, a hole in the 6 foot inflatable snow globe. Whatever it is, it now causes that big check mark to dance over my head, dangling in front of me, teasing me, and taunting me. “Now you’re not gonna finish what you started. Ha-ha.”

Enter the sacred. Enter the holy. Enter the prayer. Enter the acknowledgement that is a moment to stop…breathe…and meet Christ. Perhaps the meeting is in the request for patience in the moment. Or maybe it’s in the voice on the other end of the phone. Enter the sacred. Enter the holy.

To Do Tomorrow
Call mom
Finish summer calendar planning
Make flyers
Welcome interruptions

My Dad has cracked me up, challenged me, blown me away, and opened my eyes with some of the pearls of wisdom he has shared with me over the years. Some of my favorites…
“Get in the car.”
“You gotta open the book to learn the material.”
“A car runs on fluids Sugar. This is oil.”
“That’ll put hair on your chest.”
“Be good.”
“The family that rakes leaves together stays together.”
“You can be a saint. You just can’t be French.”
“Did Jesus give His father an attitude?”
“Bare feet and hardwood floors equal the death of a cold. It’s your funeral.”

I was talking to my dad earlier this week and he was telling me about a retreat he went on over the weekend. Dad blew me away with a gentle reminder about the season of Lent. “It’s all about Him, Sugar. It’s all about loving Him.”
Amen.

Last week we launched a new service program for middle schoolers - making casseroles for a local homeless shelter. Like all new projects there are a few things that need to be tweaked. Some notes for next time…
1. Eleven middle schoolers in a kitchen is probably seven or eight to many.
2. When cooking with onions buy one extra onion per 8th grade boy. 1 onion for cooking and 1 onion to see how long they can stand holding it in front of their eyeball.
3. Expect sound effects when participants are asked to “chop” or “dice” vegetables.
4. Refrain from doing Emeril impression.
5. CLEARLY explain that dish soap does NOT go in the dishwasher.

I grew up in one of those neighborhoods that had really cute houses and really cute lawns. Lush, green lawns in front of cape cods and 2 story colonials. Springtime was sensational in my neighborhood. Crocus popped up everywhere in early March. Forsythia brightened the island on Williamsburg Drive and pansies were in every flower pot that dotted Woodmoor Circle. Tulips, azaleas, dogwoods, hyacinth, and crepe myrtles all seemed to pop with color against the emerald patches of grass up and down the streets. It was a sight to behold.
And then there was our yard.
My family lived in a Cape Cod style house complete with front porch and sloping lawn divided by a walkway. To the left of the house was a gentle hill with hot pink azalea bushes lining the house (except for the one year they were blue because my dad spilled paint all over them) and a stunning dogwood tree. To the right of the house was a bare patch of lawn that would occasionally sprout a patch of dandelion weeds. There was only one other family in the neighborhood that seemed to have the embarrassing problem of “balding lawn,” but they had 12 children constantly running across it so it was understandable. It didn’t really bother my mom and it certainly didn’t bother my siblings and me, but for my dad, this was an issue.
He spent many a fall and spring Saturday aerating, fertilizing, seeding, sodding, watering, and staring. I remember one Saturday in particular that my dad sat us all down and explained to us that we had Shallow Root Syndrome. It meant that we were going to have to rope off that section of the lawn and not play on it for several weeks. The soil needed to be dug up and roots needed to be removed and it required us - the children - to be off it. No kickball, no cartwheels, no cheerleading, no digging, and no burying anything. Shortly after that, stakes were driven into the ground, the ropes went up around the lawn, and were banished to the left side of the house.
2 days later my sister, brother, and I were walking home from school and as we approached our house our mouths dropped open at what we saw. The stakes were all knocked over, the ropes scattered everywhere, and clearly, clearly, the lawn had been trampled on repeatedly. We knew who did it. It was the Hoffler Kids. The Hoffler Kids were archrivals. They lived around the block and were notorious for being trouble makers and for being the first kids in the neighborhood to get a Snoopy Snow Cone Machine. This was surely a Hoffler move if ever we had seen one and we had seen plenty. We waited at the top of the street that night and sprung the news on my dad as he was walking down the hill from the bus stop. We knew he was really upset because he picked up the pace and didn’t say anything. He just stared at the lawn for a bit, and we stared at him staring at the lawn, and then we all walked inside the house together. My parents discussed the situation behind closed doors and then my dad came out and asked us a few questions. “You are positive this was The Hoffler Kids? You absolutely know it was them? Because this is serious. There was a lot of damage done to the lawn and it needs to be repaired.” We didn’t really know it was The Hoffler Kids, but in our hearts we were positive it might be them. That seemed to be enough. “Yes!! Yes it was them!!” After dinner that night my dad took a walk over to the Hoffler’s house. My brother and sister and I immediately ran out the back door and hopped fences and crouched in the neighbor’s bushes to see what was happening. Mrs. Hoffler answered the door. There was an exchange of dialogue that we couldn’t hear but there was a look of surprise on her face. She called for Mari, Tommy, Michael, and Annie-that part we could hear. There was more exchange of dialogue. There were tears from Annie, the youngest who was my age. Then the kids left. Then they came back and handed something to my dad. Then we ran home. It turns out that The Hoffler Kids had to give my dad their allowance money to help pay for the damages done to our yard. This was big. Allowance money was pretty sacred and reserved for things like the ice cream truck and a marble sale at Larry’s 5&10. Before bed that night my dad told us that the Hoffler’s would be coming over on Saturday to help him repair the lawn. Later that night a sibling meeting was called in my brother’s room. Items on the agenda were what to get mom for her birthday and The Hoffler Kids. It took a bit of discussion but we were all in agreement that they had received a pretty steep punishment for something that we weren’t 100% positive they had done. And even though we were probably going to get in trouble, we should tell my dad that we weren’t really sure it was them. I got volunteered to do the actual speaking at breakfast the next morning. It went pretty well until I was done and my dad started talking. After a long talk about accusations and honesty we followed my dad over to the Hoffler’s house where we gave them their allowance money back, apologized to them and to Mrs. Hoffler, and told them that they didn’t have to make the repairs with my dad. We would be working with him on Saturday instead.
That Saturday morning we got up early, didn’t complain, and went outside right after breakfast to work with our dad for the rest of the day repairing the stakes that had been broken and aerating the soil. About an hour into our work we noticed The Hoffler Kids coming our way with Mrs. Hoffler marching behind them. When they got to our house, Mari, the oldest was the one that spoke. They had come to apologize for tearing down the stakes and trampling the lawn and offered their allowance money to my dad and were there to help fix everything. I think my brother’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. My dad was quick to speak before any of us could. I don’t remember the entire speech but I do remember the part about the tangled web of chaos when we jump to conclusions about others. I also remember all of us looking at each other when Notre Dame Football got weaved into the talk somehow. We spent the next 3 hours working side by side with each other. It seemed like a fair punishment after all that had happened.
It would be great to end the story by saying that several weeks later, little green tuffs of grass started to appear on that side of yard. But alas, Shallow Root Syndrome is a serious matter that can’t be cured overnight. And I would love to be able to say that the rivalry between us and the Hoffler’s was through after that incident. But it wasn’t. However, 3 months later when we came home from school to find 2 limbs of the dogwood tree broken, we honestly said “we didn’t do it.”

The plan for today was to wake up early (um, before 9am) and devote the entire morning to cleaning my bathroom and doing laundry before anything else. It was a good plan until Laura Ingalls ruined it all. I just turned on the tv for background noise. Normally I listen to the radio while I clean (I highly recommend Wannabe by the Spice Girls to get you through a full day of laundry) but my cd player is in the trunk of my “coffice” since I just did a Confirmation retreat the other day and needed several small household appliances to demonstrate the power of the Holy Spirit. (Uh huh.) While my foaming tile cleaner was working it’s magic and wiping away soap scum before my very eyes I heard the voice of that pesky Nelly Olson making fun of the new boy in Walnut Grove. Surely Laura would be speaking to Pa about that over supper. And she did. And so I was hooked. And wouldn’t you know that TBS runs back to back episodes of Little House On The Prairie in the mornings!! It’s hard to clean the bathroom and ponder “What would Charles Ingalls do?” all at the same time. Okay, it’s probably not that hard. But it’s more fun than scrubbing the bathroom floor.

Coffice - (noun) A car that doubles as an office.