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Honestly we tried to stifle the guffaws when our daughter called last night and asked us to keep her cats inside for the next few days.

“After all, you know what people do to black cats on Halloween,” she admonished.

As if we have that much influence on those sneaky little ones.

Background: A significant addition to our household of late has been Carolina’s two black kitties. We’re fostering them while she’s in transition. Believe me, it’s been lively. For the most part we’ve enjoyed these affectionate little buggers.

The siblings came to us as indoor cats during the summertime. Since we live without screens and with the doors open in the heat, they quickly adjusted to the wide open outdoors. But now, as fall’s blown in they’ve learned to use the kitty door. We try to keep them in at night (Carolina’s request) and like to think we have some say in the matter. Truth is though, they can dart.

We cornered the wrong black cat once or twice early on and ended up corralling three kitties in the house before the hissing ensued and we realized our mistake. Just let it be said, this business of indoors or outdoors is not as straightforward as it sounds. And it’s tricky substituting for someone else. We do want them to be safe. And we’ll follow Carolina’s lead, within reason. But, jeez!

We’re thinking they’re covered anyway and will survive this spookiest of nights. After all, earlier in the month I had them blessed at the cathedral. Sort of. I had the good sense to take a stuffed kitten to church as a surrogate. Definitely better to have an inert stand-in instead of our wild grandkits in the flesh.

I also think the ghost of Bucky, our favorite black feline will keep a special lookout for Porky and Kitty amongst the trick-or-treaters. Inside or outside, they’ll get extra protection from this watchful spirit that ruled the neighborhood for 18-plus years. After all, while there are lots of black cats around here these days, only our two youngsters bed down where Bucky once did.

 

While preparing for our summer story-telling gathering at the Butler’s home, I asked Father Alfredo if he’d translate the word “bridging.” In response, he offered hesitantly, “tender y ser el puente?” Tend or make or perhaps roll-out (as in roll-out the red carpet in honorable hospitality) and be the bridge. This is what we do at Our Lady of Guadalupe Episcopal.

Every Sunday afternoon, reliably, we come together for la misa bilingüe and then we share Happy Hour. We hold hands, sing, kneel, pray, listen and celebrate. Gradually we are learning about each other as Love radiates. We are sharing our deeper stories and beginning to invite each other into our homes.

More than a decade ago I set out to learn Spanish in middle age. Rather than traditional school study, I eventually found myself traveling back and forth to Nicaragua to stay with families in their homes and experience directly how most of the world lives. Sure it was tempting to keep traveling, enjoying and marveling in the liminality of being away from home. But I chose intentionally to return and use my developing Spanish here. Guadalupe has given me the context to continue learning.

Soon the congregation will assemble in my home for Eucharist. We are a new church and are experimenting with what works in our new age. Simultaneously we are returning to old ways like when Jesus met with others in houses. Sometimes my women friends have gathered in my home for a contemplative circle of silence followed by soup supper. Now, we’ve decided to try a more deliberate, Christ-named-and-centered bilingual service with Father Alfredo presiding. We’ll see what happens.

Opening our home feels like opening my heart even wider. Imagining this ancient tradition in both languages offered by my church queridos and swirling amongst my things and family members is Sheer Grace. It sounds delicious. Not to mention breaking bread together in the happy hours that follow.

You are invited to the home of Penny and Rob Reid

House Eucharist

on Thursday, October 13^th at 5:30  PM

Father Alfredo Feregrino presiding.

Potluck supper to follow.

For address, contact

Alfredo or Penny

Te invitamos a la casa de Penny y Rob Reid para nuestra

Primera Eucaristia en un hogar

El jueves, 13 de octubre a las 5:30 PM

con el Padre Alfredo Feregrino como celebrante.

Después tendremos una cena – Traiga cualquier platillo para compartir.

Para la dirección, póngase en contacto con

Alfredo or Penny

 

Before starting my blog it seemed prudent to consider the name I’d use given that when I launched my first book as Penny Reid, I suddenly discovered I was smack in the middle of Reid Romance Land.

Here’s what I found in a quick Google search: Indeed, the other Penny Reid is a prolific author of several creative, contemporary sex novels. And she’s not the only one with the moniker. There’s also a chemist for instance. Between these two and probably others (I didn’t study closely), Bridging by Penny Reid – Me! – doesn’t show up until page 10 of who-knows-how-many links in a web search. As I’ve said many times, I set out to learn Spanish not write a book. But then I did actually write a book and I published it without giving any thought to publicity including checking the frequency of my name in the professional or at least literary world.

Discouraged, I switched my search to Penelope Reid. After all it’s my given name and the one I use in Nicaragua with good reason. Given my sloppy accent, I can accidentally introduce myself as Pene (Spanish for penis) if I’m not careful. First I learned that the other Penny Reid who’s a romance author already uses Penelope as her Facebook name. Unbelievable! Talk about a nemesis. She’s everywhere.

And I’m screwed!

Plus, in no time I learned there are at least eight other Penelope Reids including a civil engineer, walking tour guide, two recruiters, a physical therapist and three nurses. Spanning four countries including Canada, the UK, the US and the DR.

All this to say, yes there is more story in a name than you’d think, but there is also less. Knowing one’s face is always infinitely better. And, likely you first readers know mine. You probably only know one of the many Penny Reid faces that exist as I have never had to go by Penny R or Penny 1 or Penny 2 in school. After all, where I grew up, in Virginia, usually only horses and dogs had the name of our smallest coin.

In the future, people who don’t know me may read the blog. Or I’ll struggle with which name to use if I publish another book. Hum, maybe I should add middle initials? Anyway, until then I’m sticking with my original choice. This humble rag is still about reflection, maybe conversation. Simply Penny Reid will do for that. And, in the spirit of “Everything Belongs” (thank you, Richard Rohr), I can certainly stand being affiliated with romance. Maybe even embrace it.

The other night my George W. Bush look-alike friend, Jack, was here for supper with his beautiful bride, Jeanne. The next morning I washed many of our dinner dishes by hand because the dishwasher broke. That’s the sad side of the tale. But the near-flood made me slow down and do one unexpected chore for while.

The sweet side of my reality on that recent morning was while I sunk my hands into the warm bubbles, I watched the opening of the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History and Culture. Fine black and white leaders talking and singing and celebrating and, for lack of a better word, bridging with me over the suds and airwaves. Even my least favorite president to date, that devil George W had signed the original legislation to create the museum 13 years ago. Who knew? He spoke eloquently at the event. Let me say, George W is looking better and better all the time as I consider the alternative. The museum’s founding director, Lonnie Bunch, reported that President Bush insisted, “This museum must be on the national mall.” Guess he isn’t all bad, just like the rest of us. But I digress…

I must admit: I have my own stories of race; watching the event reminded me of some of them. Almost 50 years ago and early in my decade of experiencing black and white often and personally, I was a young adolescent standing alone, a white girl in a crowd of black age-mates on the steps of Chandler Junior High in Richmond, Virginia. That’s a longer story. The story and its aftermath left me with a deep and abiding understanding of what it means to be visibly different in a 2 % minority.

Yes, I came to make friends and appreciate those experiences. But after I moved west and for the next thirty years of my life, my best friends looked and sounded like me. The people who came into my home spoke English and were white, almost exclusively, not to mention usually relatively wealthy.

Now in these dark, troubled times, a few white people are choosing the verbal ugliness, the blatant racism that I witnessed in the South. Most are unintentionally perpetuating institutional racism and some are even choosing violence. I am embarrassed, sad and tired to say the least.

I do not know how we are going to get past this. What can I do besides weep?

Watching the museum opening helps. President Barack Obama is now stepping to the stage to conclude the series of speeches. In his usual stellar words, he reminds us, “Protest and love of country don’t merely coexist but inform each other.” I find myself pondering, grateful beyond words that I had the opportunity to vote for this man and live during the eight years he has served us as president.

I am encouraged as the dishwater cools and then drains. I realize that regardless I can choose my prayers. I will also continue to consciously nurture friendships with those who are different from me. I am not a marcher necessarily. I am a writer and a welcomer. So I can naturally get to know and invite a much greater variety of people whom I love into my home. And into my heart.

My hope is that I will continue to sink into and wash myself with wonderful events like this museum opening. I will reflect on fabulous current events that shine like gold and are encouraging, especially and finally, to my black and brown-skinned friends. As Stevie Wonder just sang, we are in search of “A Desperately-Needed Love Song.” I intend to be part of it.

 

At the beginning of one staff meeting when I worked with the hospitals, we were asked to introduce ourselves by telling our name and its story. A large world map had been taped to the bulletin board in front of us. A scribe volunteered to record all of the stories by placing a tack in the map whenever a new place on earth was mentioned. I knew there would be some space covered as we told name stories because our telephone helpline employees were present. They spoke several languages in addition to English and some had immigrated to the U.S.

 

What captivated me most was the depth and elegance and surprise in every story. Even someone with a simple-to-me name like John Smith, had an elaborate middle name or shared the story of a special Uncle or Grandpa John who had traveled from Newfoundland across Canada to Seattle before putting up stakes. And me – technically I had been named Penelope Jane after a pig in a children’s book. I started my story lamenting that “No, I had not been named after the famous Greek wife” and – ding! – up went a tack halfway around the world.

 

Sure the name stories of my brown and black-skinned colleagues tended to cover more area than us white folk. We all enjoyed the diverse territory these names laid claim to.

 

I was most fascinated by the silent, nonvisible stories. The one from my Roman Catholic office mate that included five first names and at least two sir names. And Maya, like all of her sisters, had a saint’s name too, for good measure. And Jake, the child born to two parents who each had hyphenated last names – creating an amalgamation of four names representing four countries and two continents. There was the story of the European-born woman, Elise, who had married an African and had a complicated marriage tale that accompanied her name story. And Gloria too, the woman who had outlived three husbands and just continued to add name after name.

 

The 40 of us covered the globe that afternoon and left with more information and connection than we’d ever imagined. Never again would our assumptions when seeing a face or hearing a name be so limited. What’s in a name after all? Turns out, a whole lot.