This is My Body, This is My Blood

Silly Tricks, Rabbits Are For Kids

Two significant structures sat across the street from my childhood home, each on opposite corners. New Era Bible church was as much my home as the parsonage we lived in, given the amount of time I spent yawning away the hours inside. But as soon as the last amen was uttered, I often ran across the street toward Rabe's house instead of the one holding my Sunday dinner.

Mr. Rabe (pronounced ray-bee) raised rabbits, though at the time, the irony of his last name was lost on me.  A white-haired man who wore denim overalls and black rubber boots, he'd sometimes let me help fill the bowls with nuggets of grain along rows of cages stacked two high in the barn behind his house.

As I fed each pair of floppy-eared bunnies, I'd stick my fingers through the wires to touch their soft fur, longing to take one home. To me, the moments I spent in the rabbit barn were as close as one could get to experiencing the heaven my father promised his parishioners from the pulpit every week. Mr. Rabe offered to give me a pair, but no matter how many times I asked or how passionately I promised to care for them, my parents always said no to pets. I suppose seven children were enough to feed without having to worry about kibble, let alone the offspring of one of God's most prolific species.

However, I was a clever child, or so I thought, and in the sixth month of my eleventh year, came up with a brilliant plan to assure ownership of a couple of my fluffy friends. My parents were both born in June, only five days apart. What better gift than a warm, furry, rabbit bestowed upon each of them, in honor of their years on the planet? And so it was that I presented my mother and father with one black and one white bunny on the occasion of their party, which we celebrated midway between their respective birthdays.

"Take them back," my father said.

"But, they're your presents! How can you ask me to take them back?"

My mother looked at me and I returned her gaze with the best velvet painting puppy eyes I could manage. She turned to my father with her much more practiced rendition of the same sad face. My dad could easily turn down his children's numerous requests for everything we begged for, but he could rarely refuse my mother. He loved that woman more than anything and would have asked God to turn himself into a bunny if he thought it would please her.

"One," he said. "You can keep one. Take the other back."

"But--"

My mother gave me her other look, the one that said git while the going is good, kid and I nodded. One was better than none.

Mr. Rabe laughed when I returned the white bunny. "How you going to breed rabbits without the daddy?" he asked.  As smart as I thought I was, I believed Mr. Rabe raised those rabbits for the pure pleasure of having them. It never occurred to me that I'd sometimes eaten the same animals whose little pink noses I'd kissed.

Two months later while I was away a Bible Camp, I got a letter from my older sister, Anita, written on several squares of toilet paper. I loosed the scroll and read my way down.

"Your rabbit died," she wrote matter-of-factly.  "Strangled itself in the wires of the cage while trying to escape." As if this information wasn't shocking enough, she'd drawn a picture of the ghoulish scene on the bottom square, complete with the rabbit's tongue hanging out of her mouth.

I convinced myself it was my fault for leaving Blackie in my sister's care. She was probably trying to find her way to Stony Lake, where I spent two long weeks every summer as a "prize" for learning Bible verses. Knowing my penchant for melodrama, I probably would have had a full-blown funeral for the bunny if I'd been home, complete with an A' Capella version of Amazing Grace. Knowing my dad, they probably ate her for dinner that night.

I'm telling you this story because although I can't give you a rabbit for Christmas, I can give a trio of them in honor of you, to a struggling family who will pass one of the offspring onto one of their neighbors, thanks to www.heifer.org. I hope you'll join me in the spirit of giving (as opposed to the mass consumerism by those of us who already have more than we'll ever need) by gifting a pig, a beehive, a goat, a llama, a gaggle of geese, or even trees, to help a child in need this year.  After all, Christmas, like Trix, is for kids.

Far From Heaven

Last night S & I had dinner with an interfaith couple, during which we touched on the topic of  our various religious upbringings. J was raised Catholic, R is Jewish, and S and I both teethed on the back of a Baptist pew. The conversation led to stories of if/how we'd ever lost our faith. I admitted that although my father was a minister, the religion thing never fully took. I do, however, remember how badly I wanted it to.

From as far back as I remember, my Dad had assured me that I was a Child of God.
He described heaven as a glorious place where people spend all day worshipping Jesus. I figured that meant sitting in church from morning 'til night, except the streets would be paved in gold instead of asphalt. It sounded like a pretty boring way to spend eternity, but I was sure it'd beat being thrown into the lake of fire from the end of a pitchfork. My older sister had told me that demons float above the flames so they can rat you out if they catch you trying to sneak out of the fire. I was terrified of going to hell.

My first-grade catechism teacher, Imogene Houson, sealed up my heavenly reservation when she led me to the Lord on my sixth birthday.At the end of every class, Mrs. H would pray, then ask if anyone wanted to take Jesus into their heart so they could be assured a place on high. On this particular Sunday, she was just about to give up and let us go home when I peeked around to see if anybody was looking, then quick stuck my hand in the air. After everyone else gathered up their pictures of Zaccheus glued on the branch of a tree,  Mrs. H took me into one of the little side rooms of New Era Bable Church, where the deacons counted the day's take after Sunday services. She asked if I knew I was a sinner. Because I was tempted to grab a fistful of dollars from the offering plate, I told her yes, I believed I was. She nodded like she already knew that, and was exactly what she wanted me to say. She instructed me to bow my head, fold my hands, and invite the Lord Jesus into my heart.

I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead into my kncukles. “Dear God," I said. “Please come into my heart and forgive my sins.” I waited for an answer but nothing happened, so I just said, "Amen."

Mrs. H hugged me so tight her beaded brooch left dimples in my cheek. “If you’re ever in trouble, all you have to do is ask for His help because He’s right here." She patted my chest. "And remember, Ellie, He sees everything you do and hears every word you say." She gave me a little, red New Testament and said I should read from it every single day. I promised  I would, but knew I wouldn’t. I didn't even read my Little Lulu comic books every day.

Later, I announced over Sunday dinner that I had been saved.  Dad said, “Praise the Lord!” but he’d just taken a bite of mashed potatoes so it came out “Pwaise da Load.” My older sister, N,  rolled her eyes, figuring I was just trying to get attention, which in a way I was. In a family of seven childen, you do what it takes to take center stage from time to time.

That night as I lay in bed, I held my hand over my heart. I waited to see if I could sense the three new guys--God the Father, Jesus the Son, and their creepy cousin The Holy Spirit--who'd supposedly taken up residence on the other side of my ribs, but I didn't feel any different than when I'd gotten up that morning.

I still don't feel any different today. I rarely talk to God, but occasionally I talk to my dad. Mostly I  talk to myself. And to you.

Oral History

My dentist died this week. He was only 47. 

I first went to Dr. C. because a client promised he catered to cowards, and she was right. Having been raised on the "It's cheaper to pull it than fill it" method of dentistry, I'd developed a deep phobia of dentists from an early age. By the time I landed in Dr. C's chair, many of my teeth had migrated in order to fill in gaps left behind by premature harvesting, and most needed serious remodeling.

At our first appointment, we talked at length about my needs and dislikes. He marked up my chart with highlighted notes instructing his staff not to tilt my chair too far back  because it made me uncomfortable. (I feel like I'm drowning if the least bit of saliva gathers in my throat). He ordered gas and numbing--even for cleanings.

Dr. C performed excellent dentistry and I never felt the least little sting when he injected Novocain, thanks to his expert cheek-jiggling trick. But what I remember most is how he went out of his way to inquire about my life, my child, or how I was managing my divorce. He'd often squeeze my arm every so often and ask how I was doing during the more difficult appointments. He joked with me as he worked until I gradually loosened my white-knuckled grip on the chair.

When the office no longer accepted my insurance plan I kept going, preferring to pay cash over the grisly thought of finding a new dentist. A few years after that, Dr. C. cut back his hours while he battled cancer, although he kept working through bouts of chemo and radiation. He wasn't afraid to talk about his disease and seemed to live as if his days were innumerably numbered. After several periods of remission, however, the cancer returned. Just last week I received a letter he'd written to his patients, thanking us for our continued patronage and loving kindness. Today I read his obituary.

I keep touching my teeth with my tongue--as if I might somehow be able to feel him through remnants of porcelain and silver. If I could, I'd tell him how his gentle hands and genuine warmth saved me from becoming a poster child for tooth decay. I'd tell him that when I look in the mirror today, I'm convinced he planted a smile in each of the cavities he so carefully filled. I'd squeeze his arm, and say, "It was an honor to sit in your chair, my friend."

The Other Me

Sometimes when I walk into that room, the smell of tiger balm nods at me from the center of the bottom shelf.  I remember warm flesh under my hands as I worked gnarled muscles like stubborn dough into the empty corners of their bodies. They always leave feeling lighter, having left behind a blessing  in return for an exchange of grace.

Just once, I wish I knew what it would be like to fall  under the spell of my own hands. How it feels to lie limp in a puddle of complete surrender, dance across the surface of myself until I forget where the sheet ends and my body begins. Given the chance, I'd spend extra time on my feet; ply them with cream until my toes were drunk. I’d linger over the spot between T-7 and T-8 that groans when I sit too long. I'd pay special attention to my upper arms--those hang-me-down pillows that lost the will of youth a few years back.

Afterwards,  I’d rock myself back and forth, back and forth.  I'd kiss my forehead and whisper, Take all the time you want, Hon, or, Sweet dreams, Sunshine, just like I tell the others--as if I were one of my own.  Then I’d lie there suspended above the table, drenched in oil and relief, until I walked into the room and put the lid on the tiger balm, closing off the memory of the other me.