Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Saturday Visit.
“We’ve decided to let you in the house,” I told Bryan’s mom on my cell phone on Saturday afternoon.
We had a date to go grocery shopping together, and I’d been a little weary of my boyfriend’s mom seeing the inside of my house, as it is in less than pristine condition. She knew this, and was prepared to honk when she came to a rolling stop near on my street. She’s nice like that.
After some thought, though, I decided that if I were her, I’d be dying to see the inside of the house. (As is my own mother. Her Christmas present was supposed to be photographs. I’m supposed to mail them before her birthday in April. I’m close to failing at that task.) So I called up his mom and told him she could come in. While I was on the phone, I was furiously shoving underwear into closets, covering up the beer bottle in my bedroom trash can with tissues, throwing the rest of the beer bottles left over from last Thursday’s “party” into illegally obtained mail totes on the back porch for recycling.
I apologized sixteen thousand times for the state of the house as she walked in. She didn’t seem to care, “My husband’s the neat freak,” she said, “not me.”
I couldn’t help feeling like I was part of some sort of sitcom or Ben Stiller movie as I showed the tiny woman each room. She marveled over details in each room and told me over and over again what a wonderful house I have. The wooden floors. The paneling. The windows. The deck.
I’d forgotten why I liked the house. I tend to do that more and more as I get closer to the beginning of each month, otherwise known as “Mortgage Day.” Bryan’s mother reminded me that I like the house I’ve bought. And reminded me that sometime soon, I want my own mother to marvel over each room, gasping at the details, suggesting window coverings and helping me envision geraniums in every corner of the yard once it gets warmer.
That’s what moms do.
I climbed into his mom’s car and we headed up to the gourmet market, as she told me stories about her son. It was a good afternoon.
“We’ve decided to let you in the house,” I told Bryan’s mom on my cell phone on Saturday afternoon.
We had a date to go grocery shopping together, and I’d been a little weary of my boyfriend’s mom seeing the inside of my house, as it is in less than pristine condition. She knew this, and was prepared to honk when she came to a rolling stop near on my street. She’s nice like that.
After some thought, though, I decided that if I were her, I’d be dying to see the inside of the house. (As is my own mother. Her Christmas present was supposed to be photographs. I’m supposed to mail them before her birthday in April. I’m close to failing at that task.) So I called up his mom and told him she could come in. While I was on the phone, I was furiously shoving underwear into closets, covering up the beer bottle in my bedroom trash can with tissues, throwing the rest of the beer bottles left over from last Thursday’s “party” into illegally obtained mail totes on the back porch for recycling.
I apologized sixteen thousand times for the state of the house as she walked in. She didn’t seem to care, “My husband’s the neat freak,” she said, “not me.”
I couldn’t help feeling like I was part of some sort of sitcom or Ben Stiller movie as I showed the tiny woman each room. She marveled over details in each room and told me over and over again what a wonderful house I have. The wooden floors. The paneling. The windows. The deck.
I’d forgotten why I liked the house. I tend to do that more and more as I get closer to the beginning of each month, otherwise known as “Mortgage Day.” Bryan’s mother reminded me that I like the house I’ve bought. And reminded me that sometime soon, I want my own mother to marvel over each room, gasping at the details, suggesting window coverings and helping me envision geraniums in every corner of the yard once it gets warmer.
That’s what moms do.
I climbed into his mom’s car and we headed up to the gourmet market, as she told me stories about her son. It was a good afternoon.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Jigs.
After the Library show last night, which didn't draw much of a crowd, nearly every person at the Library, minus the Librarians and three random people that I didn't know, came back to my house to drink beer and/or play Irish music. Sometime around beer number three (perhaps near three in the morning) I decided that I always want an Irish band to be playing in the den. It fills the house with music, making the place seem warmer, and causes me to get somewhat of an aerobic workout, as I cannot listen to Irish music without flailing my body around in semi-Irish convulsions. It's what I like to call "doing a jig." The only downside to the idea of having an Irish band permanently playing in the den is that the recycling will be more tedious, as where there is an Irish band, one is likely to find lots of empty beer bottles. And perhaps the lack of sleep. I'm a tired cookie today.
Whatever the fuck that means.
After the Library show last night, which didn't draw much of a crowd, nearly every person at the Library, minus the Librarians and three random people that I didn't know, came back to my house to drink beer and/or play Irish music. Sometime around beer number three (perhaps near three in the morning) I decided that I always want an Irish band to be playing in the den. It fills the house with music, making the place seem warmer, and causes me to get somewhat of an aerobic workout, as I cannot listen to Irish music without flailing my body around in semi-Irish convulsions. It's what I like to call "doing a jig." The only downside to the idea of having an Irish band permanently playing in the den is that the recycling will be more tedious, as where there is an Irish band, one is likely to find lots of empty beer bottles. And perhaps the lack of sleep. I'm a tired cookie today.
Whatever the fuck that means.
Monday, February 20, 2006
On Christianity.
Being a Christian isn’t easy. It’s not as if as soon as I started dating Jesus, I became perfect, started boycotting Disney films and started viewing myself as better than everyone else.
Christianity is supposed to be the opposite of the above description. We’re all designed, by God, to love others more than ourselves. More. There’s this section where Christ says that true love is laying your life down for a friend.
So. You live your life as an American, being taught, from birth, to “look out for number one.” We’re in this race to have the best. To get the best job, have the best house, go on the best vacation, have the best legs. But in a world of “bests,” there has to be “not-bests.” So. If I fall prey to my good ol’ “these colors don’t run; look out for number one” values, while trying to follow one of the main tenets of Christianity, the “love one another” thing, then I fall into a bit of a paradox.
How can I strive for the best vacation, the best house, the best dog, the best knowledge of French authors, knowing that if I have these things, everyone else - these people that I supposedly love - don’t have the best? There can only be one best. If I have it, and I value it as “the best”, measure my worth based on my having “the best”, then I’m clearly not loving people more than myself.
It’s about the value.
So. The Christian life is about getting our value from God, not from the temporary things of this world. For some people notoriety is based on how many outfits the cement goose on your front step have. For others, it’s how many different wines from Australia you tasted last weekend. How many pizzas you can deliver in less than an hour. The way your tulips came up in a straight line last spring.
I don’t claim to have all the answers. Life is a learning process and right now, I’m learning humility. I’m learning that I don’t love others more than myself. I’m learning that most everything I do is in self-interest. But I can take comfort in knowing that I have a solid foundation to go back to, when I make a mistake, when I start to base my value on something arbitrary. Chances are, I’ll learn something new each time I return to that foundation. And chances are, I’ll stray again.
P.S. My entries as of late (with the exception of the bathroom one) have caused some pretty strong responses. I’m pretty happy about that. We spend too much time not thinking, or avoiding thinking about spiritual things, because they cause discomfort, they expose unanswered questions, they force us to take a stand on things. I was a spiritual chameleon for too many years, creating my opinion based on the opinions of those around me. Not cool. If anything comes out of my God-talk entries, it's a desire for each reader to truly explore what it is that he or she believes, and why.
Being a Christian isn’t easy. It’s not as if as soon as I started dating Jesus, I became perfect, started boycotting Disney films and started viewing myself as better than everyone else.
Christianity is supposed to be the opposite of the above description. We’re all designed, by God, to love others more than ourselves. More. There’s this section where Christ says that true love is laying your life down for a friend.
So. You live your life as an American, being taught, from birth, to “look out for number one.” We’re in this race to have the best. To get the best job, have the best house, go on the best vacation, have the best legs. But in a world of “bests,” there has to be “not-bests.” So. If I fall prey to my good ol’ “these colors don’t run; look out for number one” values, while trying to follow one of the main tenets of Christianity, the “love one another” thing, then I fall into a bit of a paradox.
How can I strive for the best vacation, the best house, the best dog, the best knowledge of French authors, knowing that if I have these things, everyone else - these people that I supposedly love - don’t have the best? There can only be one best. If I have it, and I value it as “the best”, measure my worth based on my having “the best”, then I’m clearly not loving people more than myself.
It’s about the value.
So. The Christian life is about getting our value from God, not from the temporary things of this world. For some people notoriety is based on how many outfits the cement goose on your front step have. For others, it’s how many different wines from Australia you tasted last weekend. How many pizzas you can deliver in less than an hour. The way your tulips came up in a straight line last spring.
I don’t claim to have all the answers. Life is a learning process and right now, I’m learning humility. I’m learning that I don’t love others more than myself. I’m learning that most everything I do is in self-interest. But I can take comfort in knowing that I have a solid foundation to go back to, when I make a mistake, when I start to base my value on something arbitrary. Chances are, I’ll learn something new each time I return to that foundation. And chances are, I’ll stray again.
P.S. My entries as of late (with the exception of the bathroom one) have caused some pretty strong responses. I’m pretty happy about that. We spend too much time not thinking, or avoiding thinking about spiritual things, because they cause discomfort, they expose unanswered questions, they force us to take a stand on things. I was a spiritual chameleon for too many years, creating my opinion based on the opinions of those around me. Not cool. If anything comes out of my God-talk entries, it's a desire for each reader to truly explore what it is that he or she believes, and why.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Because I Can.
So, I painted my bathroom the color of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese this weekend. I was feeling rebellious, and it was either hit up the paint store, or book a flight to Ecuador. Money's short these days, so I chose the former. And I'm pretty happy with the decision.
It's the first visible "home improvement" that I've made since buying the house.
Truth is, it will probably be the only one for awhile.
So, I painted my bathroom the color of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese this weekend. I was feeling rebellious, and it was either hit up the paint store, or book a flight to Ecuador. Money's short these days, so I chose the former. And I'm pretty happy with the decision.
It's the first visible "home improvement" that I've made since buying the house.
Truth is, it will probably be the only one for awhile.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Puppet Ministry.
Despite my history of dabbling in musical drama, despite my constitution of story-telling, despite my not-so-secret desire to be the center of attention, I fear public speaking. I honestly don’t know why. It hasn’t always been this way. I think it started in college, when I’d emcee poetry slams at Casa Nueva, a bar in Athens. After one or two stints, I pulled in my friend Matt to do the deed and never set foot on stage again.
When I put on the Library concerts, I have to stand in front of sixty people for roughly two minutes, reminding them to sign up for library cards, reminding them that there’s food and drink in the AV Department. Those are the scariest two minutes of the night. At the beginning of the evening, I start to dread them. They are the central point of the event. Once they’re over, I spend the rest of the evening decompressing, physically sighing in relief that I no longer have to speak in front of people.
So last night, I taught a Bible study. I sat on a stool in front of roughly twenty-five people and spoke for half an hour on being a servant for God. I clung to my note cards and dug my bare feet into the rungs on the stool. I separated myself from my body last night, and heard myself talking. It was a strange feeling to be both speaking to an audience and listening to myself.
When you teach a Bible study, you’re basically trying to take what God has to say in the Bible, and retell it in a way that’s applicable to the person or people you’re talking to. You’re a spokesperson for the relevance of a book written thousands of years ago, and a spokesperson for the invisible controversial Being who wrote it.
I was nervous last night, but not for the normal reasons. I wasn’t focused on sweaty pits, or shaking hands, or a wavering voice. The cause of my anxiety was the fact that I am human. I am flawed. Thus, my interpretation of the passage – my message about having a servant attitude – could be flawed. Before the teaching last night, I prayed that I would become a puppet. That God would just speak through me. That when my mouth opened, God would use me to say what it was he wanted to get across to each person in the room.
I believe that God answered my prayer last night. I can’t tell you what others took away from my teaching, but I know that he taught me something through the process, as humbly attached myself to that stool. Last night I learned that the Creator is a living and active Being. Bigger, stronger and more loving than I’ll ever be able to comprehend during my days on earth.
Why? Because, despite my hatred of public speaking, I kind of want to do it again.
Despite my history of dabbling in musical drama, despite my constitution of story-telling, despite my not-so-secret desire to be the center of attention, I fear public speaking. I honestly don’t know why. It hasn’t always been this way. I think it started in college, when I’d emcee poetry slams at Casa Nueva, a bar in Athens. After one or two stints, I pulled in my friend Matt to do the deed and never set foot on stage again.
When I put on the Library concerts, I have to stand in front of sixty people for roughly two minutes, reminding them to sign up for library cards, reminding them that there’s food and drink in the AV Department. Those are the scariest two minutes of the night. At the beginning of the evening, I start to dread them. They are the central point of the event. Once they’re over, I spend the rest of the evening decompressing, physically sighing in relief that I no longer have to speak in front of people.
So last night, I taught a Bible study. I sat on a stool in front of roughly twenty-five people and spoke for half an hour on being a servant for God. I clung to my note cards and dug my bare feet into the rungs on the stool. I separated myself from my body last night, and heard myself talking. It was a strange feeling to be both speaking to an audience and listening to myself.
When you teach a Bible study, you’re basically trying to take what God has to say in the Bible, and retell it in a way that’s applicable to the person or people you’re talking to. You’re a spokesperson for the relevance of a book written thousands of years ago, and a spokesperson for the invisible controversial Being who wrote it.
I was nervous last night, but not for the normal reasons. I wasn’t focused on sweaty pits, or shaking hands, or a wavering voice. The cause of my anxiety was the fact that I am human. I am flawed. Thus, my interpretation of the passage – my message about having a servant attitude – could be flawed. Before the teaching last night, I prayed that I would become a puppet. That God would just speak through me. That when my mouth opened, God would use me to say what it was he wanted to get across to each person in the room.
I believe that God answered my prayer last night. I can’t tell you what others took away from my teaching, but I know that he taught me something through the process, as humbly attached myself to that stool. Last night I learned that the Creator is a living and active Being. Bigger, stronger and more loving than I’ll ever be able to comprehend during my days on earth.
Why? Because, despite my hatred of public speaking, I kind of want to do it again.
