I do so love kippered herring and scrambled eggs for breakfast, but Mother finds the flavor a little strong.  Nevertheless, it was a fine breakfast; a surprise especially in the light of the fact that Mother had been a little testy over what she referred to as “this faith business”.

Mother seemed to be in a very happy mood, so happy that Pippa, the frou-frou dog, had climbed up on her lap and had fallen asleep.  I should have expected something; there often is when Mother does something apparently out of character.

I poured myself a second cup of Lapsang Souchong, thinking how fine it would be to smoke an Arturo Fuente Rosado Magnum after such a fine repast of kippered herring.  The two things seem to go together, however, wisdom is the better part of valor and I decided not  to press my luck.

Mother looked at me in a contented fashion, and said, “I’ve been thinking, Alfred . . .”

“Yes, Mother,” said I, inwardly wincing.  Even I can add two and two together and not come up with three.  Something was indeed up, as they put it.

“Well, Alfred,” said Mother, “I’ve been thinking.  It has been a long time since our old housekeeper, Ada, retired, not that I mind doing the housework, but as I said, it has been a long time since Ada retired and I would like to have someone come in twice a week.”

“That seems reasonable to me,” I replied, “but it is very difficult to find someone reliable; after all, the two or three housekeepers you tried after Ada left really were atrocious, and why twice a week?”

“Well, Alfred, that’s just the thing.  Grace Whittington has a marvelous housekeeper who comes in twice a week, and Grace asked me if I would also be interested in having her for two days a week.  Apparently she was working for another family but they have moved, and she is available.”

In a way, I was relieved. After all, when Mother has been thinking it could turn out to be almost anything.  So I said, “Have you talked with this housekeeper?”

“No, I haven’t but I have made an arrangement for her to come this morning after breakfast.”

With that the doorbell rang Westminster.  Mother left the room to answer it, and I thought, “Fait accompli! I didn’t really have a chance.  What if I had said, ‘No’?  I hope it’s worth one breakfast of kippered herring.”

A broad Scot’s brogue sounded in the next room, “Missus Montrose, so pleased to meet you.  I’m Agnes Findlay.  Missus Whittington told me you might be looking for someone to help a bit with the housework.”

Their voices faded off into the distance and I could hear them going from room to room.  Eventually, they circled around to where I was sitting in the breakfast nook.  Agnes Findlay was a square set stocky woman with a broad smile and an air of obvious competence about her.

Mother said, “Agnes has agreed to work for us on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  On Mondays and Wednesdays she is at the Whittington’s.  Grace tells me that Agnes is an accomplished cook.  Isn’t that marvelous?”

“Mr. Montrose,” said Agnes, “verra pleased to meet you.  Ever since I heard from Missus Whittington that you might be needin’ a housekeeper I’ve been prayin’ for you both.  I’ve always kept Horace and Grace Whittington in my prayers; it’s been my custom to pray for the families I work for.”

I thought to myself, “Isn’t it wonderful the way the Lord works.  Now what will Mother do?”
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“I write these things to you who believe in the name of the Son of God that you may know that you have eternal life.  And this is the confidence that we have toward him, that if we ask anything according to his will he hears us”[1 John 5:13-14].

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All Mother and Alfred stories are written by Canon Rob Smith.

Mother’s Day is one of those awkward days, it’s not on the Church Calendar, but even in my business it’s good for marketing.  Our store is featuring some wonderful Donna Karan and Ralph Lauren cashmere sweaters, a little pricey perhaps, but there’s nothing quite like the feel of cashmere.  But then again, if the truth be told, Mother’s Day is not really about marketing, despite what my Sales Manager, Raphael Vilas, says.

I have long been fond of one of Christina Rossetti’s early poems that she wrote for her Mother when she was only eleven.

To My Mother – Christina Rossetti (1842)

To-day’s your natal day,
Sweet flowers I bring;
Mother, accept, I pray,
My offering.

And may you happy live,
And long us bless;
Receiving as you give
Great happiness.

What I like about the poem is Christina’s childish simplicity.  She brings flowers to her Mother on her birthday, asking that her offering be accepted, and then she prays that her Mother might live a happy life, and bless her children and receive great happiness as she gives her motherly love to them.

As you know, Mother and I have been having a little stress over my recent faith decision, and occasionally, as you are probably also aware, Mother can be a little testy at times.  But, I am mindful that Mother really loves our son Jeremy and his fiancé Winifred; and she also quite clearly loves me.  So even if I have to jostle for a little bit of elbow room once in a while, I want you to know that Mother does have a good heart.  Above all, she possesses a unique quality, pride of place.  She knows what is important and ought to be kept in first place at all times.  For Mother, that is our family and our home.  Some may find pride of place in others annoying, but from my viewpoint those who have no pride of place, nothing to elevate and hold dear, are bereft of one of the foundations stones of character.  True, Mother is wrestling with the place of faith in her life but she does love, and love so very often does win out.

The other thing about Mother is that she places a high value on truth, so high a value, in fact, that she has been on occasion known to call a fool “a fool.”  There are times when that is inconvenient, and other times when it may be the very best thing for the fool in question. Once in a while she has chafed me over some dereliction or other, and often I must ruefully admit that she is right.

The third thing, you might think is a negative trait, but I don’t; the third thing is that Mother can be very stubborn, but the word “stubborn” is misleading.  Mother is steadfast, not only about some things that she doesn’t need to be steadfast about, but also in areas where being steadfast is a saving grace.

And perhaps, above all, Mother is very creative and I treasure the myriad of ways in which she maneuvers through this wicked world of ours.  Can you imagine what Mother would be like if she were to come consciously to faith?  Even as it is, she is a very fine woman, and I love her.
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“ Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things” [Philippians 4:8].

Mother is in a snit, and, fortunately has gone to bed.  For my part, this is a wonderful time to walk Pippa, our frou-frou dog, out in the garden.  The small group meeting was at the Whittington’s this evening.  Would you believe they actually served a lobster bisque and a Caprese salad; you know, alternating slices of rare filet mignon, mozzarella, tomatoes, balsamic vinegar and fresh basil?  It was exquisite!  Grace Whittington certainly put her best foot forward.  Even Mother was impressed; so impressed that it took the edge off her negativity about the Bible Study and the prayer time.  By the time we got to the Bible Study, Mother was almost mellow.

Fortunately, she liked the red leather New Jerusalem Bible that I purchased for her.  The feel of real leather is very satisfying, and the color was not that embarrassing “Bible black”.  For Mother, it’s the little things that make the difference.

She actually did venture an opinion or two during the Bible Study.  Mother always has an opinion.  We were reading about Jesus’s call of Simon and Andrew in the Gospel of Mark and Mother said, “Fishermen? Really Grace, you would think he would have called people more socially acceptable.”

Grace’s husband, Horace, mildly replied, “I love to fish.  Why, last summer we were salmon fishing at Lochaber in Scotland.  It was a marvelous experience.”  That was quite crafty of Horace; after all, he knew what she meant.

That seemed to satisfy Mother and she replied, “Well, I suppose it’s alright then.”

On the way home Mother was ominously silent, but that didn’t last long.  By the time we had arrived home she began to natter away.  “Alfred, you should have known better than to wear a red paisley ascot.  Paisley is so difficult, and it clashed with the dress Grace was wearing.”

“Mother,” said I, “it was perfectly alright.  I was sitting at the opposite side of the table and it didn’t matter at all.”  Mother looked askance at me as though she couldn’t believe what she was hearing, but, after all, I had to say something, and knowing Mother, I knew that wasn’t the issue.

Once home, Mother began puttering in the kitchen and I heard a crash, a crystal goblet had careened off the counter and shattered on the floor.  I could hear Mother muttering as she swept up.  Mother and Muttering are two “M” words that belong together, especially when she is upset and doesn’t know why she is upset.  The best thing to do is lay low and stay out of firing range.  Even Pippa was beginning to learn that, and she was hiding under the dining room table.

Eventually, Mother went to bed.  Ordinarily she likes to read for a little while, but this evening she turned off the light angrily and was laying there awake in the dark.  If you don’t think that someone can turn off a light angrily, you don’t know Mother.

With that, Pippa and I took the safest course and headed out to the garden together.  I have begun to learn the value of small informal spontaneous prayers.  Grace Whittington tonight called them arrow prayers, so I shot a few heavenward and what occurred to me is that Mother was upset with the dinner and the Bible Study because she found nothing to be upset about.  That actually makes sense, knowing Mother.  And the other thing that occurred to me was that there was nothing I needed to do about it except walk with Pippa in the garden.

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“Let my prayer be counted as incense before you, and the lifting up of my hands as the evening sacrifice!” (Psalm 141:2).

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All Mother and Alfred stories are written by Canon Rob.

“I object, Mother! I strenuously object!  The news is bad enough these days without the frenetic added excitement of some under-clad female reporter.  From the very tone of her voice you can tell that she’s enjoying herself immensely.  How will she ever be able to keep that excitement up when the news is served up cold?  And, as for that Matt Lauer, if he asks one more person how his second cousin’s nephew’s dog feels about what’s happening I’m going to give up watching the news forever.”

“Quite right, Alfred,” said Mother indignantly. “Gone are the days of Edward R. Murrow, Charles Collingwood, and Walter Cronkite.  There was a reason why Walter Cronkite was referred to as the most trusted man in America.”

“Absolutely, Mother,” said I, barreling right along. “And he was trusted because he reported the news with dignity and restraint instead of getting emotionally involved in it.  As difficult as some things were that he reported, one was left with the knowledge that if Walter Cronkite was unflappable, all would be right with the world.”

We had just turned off the evening news and were sitting in the solarium looking out over our garden and thinking about the events of the recent past; those murders in Kaufman, the disaster in West, and the horrible events surrounding the Boston Marathon.  Mother is particularly affected by what happened in Boston.  Mother comes from one of the oldest and finest families in New England.  Her grandfather, Antonio Talliaferro, emigrated from Palermo to England and thence to Boston, Massachusetts, where he changed his name to Anthony Toliver.  Mother would often remark that in her grandfather’s day his family had an effective way of dealing with people like terrorists.

In an odd way it was a relief for Mother and I to have something on which we could both agree.  At least she wasn’t focused on my faith adventure!  I hadn’t realized that my encounter with Christ would be like throwing a mill stone in the pond.  The ripples were still spreading and little uncomfortable waves were lapping on the shore.

“Alfred,” said Mother changing the subject, “I am very uncomfortable with that invitation from Grace Whittington!”

“Yes,” said I, waiting patiently for the real issue to emerge.

“Well, it’s tomorrow night, Alfred, and we are supposed to bring our Bibles.  I don’t have a Bible; at least not one that makes sense to me.  There is that old one that belonged to Grandmother Talliaferro.  It has a funny name; the Douay-Rheims Bible, and it is hard to understand. Grandfather wasn’t very religious, but Grandmother used to attend mass every day. Anyway, bringing a big black Bible would be just too gauche.”

Mother often had a hidden agenda, a sub-theme that lay behind her frowning, and I had an idea what it might be.  “Mother,” said I, “I was browsing in the book store the other day and I saw a lovely red leather bound New Jerusalem Bible that just might do; and red is so much more cheerful than black.  Why, it hardly looks like a Bible.”

“Well, I don’t know, Alfred,” said Mother hesitantly. “I suppose so.”

But knowing Mother as I do I could tell she was pleased. After all, quality is ever foremost in her mind.

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“The Scriptures are Gods Voyce; The Church is His eccho.” – John Donne 17^th C

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All Mother and Alfred stories are written by Canon Rob.

White Bread has had its day.  But, there was a time when White Bread was a staple item in the American Kitchen.  At the end of the 1800s, white bread was being produced in unsanitary unregulated bakeries.  With the creation of large factory produced White Bread the bread was more palatable, but difficult to slice because of its soft spongy texture.  The next big innovation in the early 1900s was factory sliced White Bread.  With that, White Bread became common in most American households.  It was eventually enhanced with vitamins; “Builds strong bodies nine ways.”  Even Hopalong Cassidy, the cowboy hero, was sponsored by Bond Bread, White Bread of course. As a kid, it sold me!

The middle class, and the American church, were both decidedly White Bread.  A lot of people liked White Bread in the kitchen, and at church. There were some positive factors.  White Bread was dependable, easy to use, fairly neutral and a good platform for peanut butter and jelly.  White Bread churches were also fairly dependable; easy on the worshipper, and fairly neutral on social matters.  Towards the end of the White Bread Generation we were told in seminary not to bother the people with difficult doctrines, but stick to the spiritual peanut butter and jelly.

Around the late 1950s tastes began to change.  Today White Bread is viewed negatively as chemically sanitized and containing synthetic nutrients and high calories. It has the disadvantage of reflecting big industry baking.  People want to move to smaller bakery firms, organic breads, and family farm bread.  Whole Wheat and Whole Grain breads have supplanted White Bread.  White bread is viewed as being both unhealthy and uncreative.  In the church, the White Bread Generations still dominate the American mainline churches, and the mainline churches are dwindling rapidly.

For the church to reach out and attract those born after the mid-1970’s we will have to acknowledge that the White Bread that served us in the past will no longer serve for the future.  But we should remember that some essentials of bread do not change without losing the very character of what makes bread, bread.  The Gospel itself and truth of Scripture cannot change without the church losing its identity.  I don’t think the church needs to “dumb down” and make things simpler.  Perhaps it needs to “smarten up” and become more challenging in doctrine and teaching.

We are now in a changed world with the rise of mass communication, the internet, and social media like Facebook and Twitter.  The church will have to step up to the plate and enter into the circles of media, and become involved in the things that interest the younger generations.  Today’s younger generations are cross-cultural, and for the church to reach out,it will also have to become cross-cultural.  The question for us at Trinity Episcopal Church is, “What doors are God opening before us?”  The underlying question is, “What is God doing in the world, and how we do align ourselves with it?”

A new adult Sunday class is studying the classic, A Harmony of the Gospels, by A.T. Robertson. In this study, we will see the chronology of the life of Christ as recorded in all four Gospels. We hope you can make plans to attend next Sunday morning at 9:15. Donuts and coffee are provided!

The Silent Auction is set for June 15 beginning at 6:30pm. Last year’s event was a huge success and we hope that this year’s will be even better! The proceeds from the auction will go towards purchasing new round tables for our parish hall and possibly some picnic tables for our playground area. It’s time to bring us your auction items. If you need your items picked up, contact us at 972-991-3601 or email us at info@tecdallas.org to make arrangements. Don’t forget to tell your family and friends and invite them to the auction!

I must confess that it’s been a difficult week, and difficult on two fronts.  Mother has not responded well to my new adventure in faith; but it has occurred to me that I should neither back down, nor make a pest of myself.  The result is that I have resolved just to stick to my normal pattern as best as I can. I usually rise and hour or two before Mother, make myself a cup of tea, and retire to my study with my Bible.

The second front, of course, is the frou-frou dog. Mother has named it Pippa. I thought it ought to be named Puddles, but I wisely kept my mouth shut. As it says in Proverbs, “Even a fool who keeps silent is considered wise.”

This morning Mother was out puttering around in the garden trimming the dead buds off the Dublin rose bushes that she had planted last fall, and I have taken advantage of the moment by going into the drawing room and sitting down at our Seiler 168 Virtuoso piano.  Admittedly, I’m a little rusty, but an old Bill Kenney number from The Ink Spots had come to mind and I began to sing softly,

Come my love and live with me
Beside the ever chanting sea
We’ll live beneath the open sky
And share the simple things, that life as one
I’ll bring you the gold of the dusk and dawn
We’ll speak of love eternally
For nothing else could sweeter be
As endless as the sky, our love shall never die
O come my love and live with me.

I suddenly became aware that Mother had entered the room and had begun to sing along in harmony.  I was appreciative, after all, she had been a little sensitive lately.

“Alfred,” said Mother. “I’ve noticed that Pippa seems to have taken a shine to you.”

“Well, harrumph!” said I, not knowing what else to say.  I didn’t want to point out that Pippa had fallen in with my morning routine and usually followed me into the kitchen for a morning biscuit and then settled down in the study with me.  It probably helped that I have stopped referring to it as the frou-frou dog.

Just then the phone rang and Mother picked it up and I heard her saying, “Helen, good morning.” Then, “Dinner at your house on Wednesday evening, how lovely, thank you, of course we’d like to come.”  There was a pause and then she continued, “It’s the same group we had dinner with at the Bistro?”

Then a distinct note of coolness crept into Mother’s voice, and I heard her say, “You want us to bring our bibles?”  Mother’s face had that set iron lady expression that she had copied from Margaret Thatcher.

Finally, she put down the phone and stared at me.  “Alfred, did you put Helen up to this?”

“Up to what, Mother,” said I¸ for in truth, I hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about.

“Alfred,” said Mother, “Grace says it’s called a Care Group.  They get together once a week for dinner and a bible study and they pray together.  If it weren’t Grace Whittington, I would have said ‘No!’  Whatever will I do?  I don’t like the idea of praying out loud at all.  That would be most uncomfortable. I like to keep my prayers between myself and God.”

My guess was that Mother seldom prayed, if at all.  It just wasn’t her type of thing. I considered the problem for a moment then answered, “I’m sure that you won’t be pressured to praying aloud if you don’t want to.  After all, prayer is a rather individual thing, and after all, it is the Whittingtons and we do like the Whittingtons.”

“Yes, well, Alfred, I suppose so,” said Mother. “We’ll just have to see.”
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“In that day, says the LORD of hosts, every one of you will invite his neighbor under his vine and under his fig tree.” (Zechariah 3:10)

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All Mother and Alfred stories are written by Canon Rob.

What a horrible morning!  One would think that after one has surrendered one’s life to Christ Jesus last Sunday that things would be a little easier.  I was almost prepared for Mother’s negative reaction; surrender is not something for which she has natural empathy.  What I wasn’t prepared for was her next move.  Yesterday, she went to Grace Whittington’s and came back with the threatened frou-frou dog, a Bichon Frisé.

Well, the dog is not house trained, and Mother let it roam around freely last night.  Usually, in the morning I swing my feet out of bed and slip on my red velvet Albert Slippers.  This morning was different than all other mornings.  I rolled out of bed and put my foot in a puddle of something wet on the Kermin carpet in our bedroom.  I looked around for my Albert Slippers.  One was a sodden well-chewed mess across the room by my Louis XVI Armoire, the other was under the bed.  I could have wept in frustration.

As was my early morning custom, I went to the kitchen and took down the Brown Betty teapot from the cabinet, filled it a quarter full of hot water from the electric kettle, swished it around, and placed several teaspoons of Irish Breakfast tea in the pot.  Then I looked around the kitchen and noticed an odiferous pile of something brown under the breakfast table.  By then I was fuming.  Of course, I did the noble thing.  I got down on my knees and cleaned up the mess under the table; but I also resolved to have a firm word with Mother about the dog.

After I calmed down, I went to get a Royal Staffordshire mug from the cabinet.  Just as I lifted the mug, the dog waddled into the kitchen and tugged forcefully on my silk damask pajama leg and I dropped the mug on the floor and it shattered.  I am ashamed to admit that at that point I gave vent to a few choice gutter phrases.  I had quite enough of the frou-frou dog, and if the dog hadn’t fled at my outburst, I swear I would have kicked it.

The problem is not really the language, but the feeling of having lost control.  I felt terrible!  I was on my knees cleaning up shards of shattered china when it occurred to me that this was the second time this morning that I had been on my knees, and neither time had I been praying.  It was with mixed resentment and embarrassment that I pondered over the situation but it seemed clear, at the very least, that I was looking at an unlovely side of my nature that was of interest to my God.  It seems that I do not like to be thwarted or inconvenienced.  Ouch!

Becoming a Christian has some demands that I wasn’t prepared for.  Guilt over stupid stuff has a way of hammering at the inner man.  Oh, well, I knew the remedy. I just didn’t want to co-operate with the extended grace.  When I figured that out, I got down on my knees right there in the kitchen and prayed.  Having done that I felt better, but now the question arises, just how am I going to adjust to the frou-frou dog?

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“For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin.  Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need”[Hebrews 4:15-16].

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All Mother and Alfred stories are written by Canon Rob.