Last year I wrote a post about the never-ending splits within Protestant churches and my own distaste for this as a "catholic-minded" Episcopalian. At the time, I said I was considering joining the Roman Catholic Church. Thirteen months later, I am not only one step closer, but I may have passed the point where I can no longer go back.

I've reached my breaking point, and it has nothing to do with the headline issues—where I actually come down on the "liberal" side— or with the deeper theological fractures like communion without baptism—where I am an unbending traditionalist. Instead, it has come down to an intolerable situation right here in Eugene, Oregon.

We left our old parish—the church where we were married and where our daughter was baptized—over a major dispute with the Rector. This dispute, involving my daughter's so-called disruptions during Mass, left us feeling unwelcome to the point where we could no longer be in that church or even in the same room with that priest.

He has recently retired, and I expected him and his wife to relocate to the Midwest where their grandchildren live. That's what I would do, and though we had no intent of returning to our old parish we were relieved that we would no longer risk running into him out in public.

Then just a few days ago I found out that he has not only decided to remain in Eugene, but he is now the "Rector Emeritus" of the parish. Instead of hiring a new rector, at least for the time being, the vestry have given their assistant priest the title "Priest-in-Charge" along with rector's workload while allowing their former rector to retain his power behind the scenes.

Ultimately, this is the vestry's call, and we really don't care how they run their parish. That same day, though, I found out that our former rector was filling in for the summer at another parish in town. A parish we might have visited not knowing he'd be there celebrating the Eucharist.

So now we're faced with the situation that we might run into him at any of the local Episcopal churches. Worse, our daughter would be with us and he, through his actions, gave up the right to ever see her again. This leaves me, as the Episcopalian in the family, with two choices: leave Eugene or leave the Episcopal Church. My wife's job prohibits the former so I'm left with the latter.

My wife will be ok. She has the same disagreements with the Vatican that I do, but she was raised Catholic and is more comfortable overall in Catholic churches. My daughter is too young to know she was baptized in an Episcopal Church, and will settle right in. RCIA will be a breeze for me, I could probably teach it myself given my grounding in Catholic theology and practice.

The hard part will be giving up all the things I love about the Episcopal Church: the liturgy, the music, the vested servers—I doubt I'll ever be able to distribute communion in street clothes—the abundant use of incense, bells, and holy water in Anglo-Catholic parishes, the chanted Eucharistic prayers, and litanies. All of these things could, and honestly should, be part of Catholic Masses, but in my experience they rarely are. Guitars and tambourines? Yes! "Smells and bells?" Not so much.

Maybe once I join I could find other former Anglicans, or other musicians interested in chant. Maybe I can find a sympathetic priest just waiting for the right parishioner to get something going. After all, I am a follower of Christ and in Christ there is always hope. All I know is that we need a church to raise Anna in and I'm left with one option.

It's time to cross the Tiber.

Last month I talked about my lucky streak finding used bibles at Goodwill. Well, as far as book selection in general goes, Goodwill is usually more miss than hit. I did find a hardback Chicago Manual of Style last week, but overall I do about as well at Goodwills as I do at yard sales.

The best thrift store for books in my experience is definitely St. Vincent de Paul. With rare exception, their book sections are large and well-organized and their prices are well below what a used bookstore can afford to charge.

Today provides a great example. I finally got around to using some of my Barnes and Noble gift card today. I purchased Expecting Adam by Martha Beck and Writing About Your Life by William Zissner for $15 each, less member discount. I also thought about purchasing The Middle Place by Kelly Corrigan, which also lists for $15, but I decided to wait. Maybe I could find a better price online.

After dinner, I stopped by a St. Vincent's close to our apartment and browsed through the memoir section. Within minutes, I found a like-new copy of The Middle Place in paperback for $1.50. My reluctance at Barnes and Noble ended up saving me $13.50

From now on, I'll be checking St. Vincent's first.

I clearly remember my dad teaching me to ride a bike. We lived in Alexandria, VA, at the time and had a very large, and—on Saturday—very empty parking lot just a few miles away from our house.

I learned to ride a bike in the Pentagon parking lot.

Pretty memorable, huh? What I don't remember, though, was learning to pedal. I was much younger—three or four at the most—and I learned on the far less memorable  sidewalk in front of our house in Virginia Beach.

Anna is learning to pedal. We bought her a bike two years ago because her legs were already too long for a tricycle. The first summer, I pushed her, the second summer, I pushed her some more. I tried to encourage her to pedal. Other kids her age were pedaling, but she just wasn't getting it. OK, I thought, next summer she's going to learn to pedal.

That was my goal, and I took her to our neighboorhood park yesterday to teach her. Now, as I said before, I don't remember how I learned to pedal so I had no idea where to start. First, I set her on the bike. She rocked back and forth, but didn't go anywhere. Then I tried pushing her. I figured if I got her feet moving she might take over and pedal on her own.

I pushed her all the way around the park, letting go every few steps to see if she'd pick up the pedaling. Each time, she slowed to a stop.

I tried verbal encouragement. "Push this leg." I pointed to her left leg.

"I can't!"

I repeated what my mom always told me. "Don't say you can't, just try."

She rocked a bit more. "I can't."

This was getting nowhere, so I decided on a new approach: bribery.

I pointed to a line on the path. "If you can pedal this far, we'll get you a prize when we get home." We had a box of little prizes set aside for rewards.

She pushed, she rocked, and she pedaled, all the way to the line and she kept going. She finally had it.

"That's great, Anna." Now she had started, and I wanted her to keep going. "OK, if you can pedal all the way to the playground, Mommy and I will take you to Toys 'R' Us."

She kept going, ten feet, twenty feet, almost there.

Then she stopped. Her wheels got stuck.

By this point one of her friends from the neighborhood saw Anna on her bike.

"I have a bike," Marta said as she ran over to us.

"Anna's just learning to pedal," I said.

Marta put her hand on Anna's shoulder. "You can do it, Anna."

"I can't," Anna cried. "I'm stuck."

She was so close. I didn't want her to get discouraged now or she might give up.

"Let's move the bike over to the basketball court." I helped Anna off the bike and picked it up. We walked over to the edge of the court, I set the bike down, and she got back on

"Just pedal to that line." I pointed to a line on the court. "And we'll go to Toys 'R' Us."

She pedaled to the line and past it, all the way across the court.

"Yay Anna!" Marta shouted.

I smiled. I'd just taught my daughter to pedal her bike.

Every child at some time or another gets an imaginary friend. Given that Anna isn't in school yet and only has a few friends she knows—as opposed to her many "friends I don't know"—I expected she might have one by now.

Not yet, but as of last week she has an imaginary pet. Her name is Betty, and she's a poogle (half poodle, half beagle). I guess it makes sense. Anna loves dogs, but a dog wouldn't mix well with either our two bunnies or my mother-in-laws two cats. So Anna made up a dog.

Don't tell her that, though. Yesterday,  I made the mistake of calling her dog invisible.

"She is not invisible!" Anna replied.

I quickly corrected my error. "I meant she's invisible to everyone else. Of course, you can see her."

That seemed OK, but I hate to think how she would have reacted if I'd said "imaginary" instead.

Anyway, like most imaginary pets, Betty has some distinct advantages over a real pet. She's easy to take care of—she's housebroken and since both her pee and poop are invisible, it's easy to clean up after her. Anna has an unlimited supply of imaginary dog food, dog treats, and dog toys, and though she hasn't mentioned it yet, I'm sure Betty  gets plenty of imaginary water as well.

The biggest advantage, though, is that Betty can go with Anna everywhere. This weekend, Anna played on several inflatables, including a bounce house, a "Rat Race" obstacle course, and a slide in the shape of a sinking ocean liner. Betty got to go on every one. Last night, Anna brought Betty to see the fireworks at PK Park and she didn't get scared at all. Today, Anna brought her to the mall, where only assistance dogs and imaginary dogs are allowed. Betty played with Anna until some other kids showed up, then she sat quietly, waiting until Anna was done. Imaginary dogs are very well-behaved.

Imaginary dogs seem to grow up faster. On Saturday, Betty was a little puppy, but by yesterday she was "all grown up" and "medium sized." I'm not sure if she'll get any bigger, or smaller for that matter. She may even turn back into a puppy, or change breeds. Since I only had real dogs growing up, I'm not sure what imaginary ones can do.

Maybe by next week she'll learn to fly.