beyond the pale

I’m afraid this week’s blogging is going to be more journal-ish than usual.

By that I mean, you’ll likely be treated to a steady stream of posts that bear witness to my churning insides, my clamoring thoughts, my unassuaged fears about Friday’s meeting with my one-time best friend, Joey.

Clarity is elusive here; wisdom more so. There’s how my flesh wants to handle it — for instance, in one message she suggested that we meet near a particular pond at a particular park; I demurred, not from a dislike of ponds, mind you, but from an awareness that I was relishing the mental picture of her in the pond a little too much.

And then there’s how the Lord wants me to handle it. Somehow, I don’t think that involves my secret, coddled equation of:

Pond + Joey = Tracey’s inner delight and the solution to everything!

So we’re not meeting by the pond.

In a recent phone conversation, my sister said:

“Don’t underestimate what God is capable of.”

To which I countered:

“Yeah, but I don’t want to overestimate what I’m capable of.”

She sighed, wondering, I’m sure, why she was paying for such long-distance aggravation.

I know — how I know! — the scales of my heart must tip in the balance towards God, towards His way — love, forgiveness, humility. The problem is that sinner’s heart inside each of us that naturally tips its balance towards the flesh, towards our way, the bottom of that pond. And right now, I can feel, unmistakably, that inner see-saw, tilting this way, then that, and back again, in wobbly rhythm.

No wonder I feel sick.

Oh, please. Puh-leaze. Spindly, three-legged aliens of vastly superior intelligence attack earth for no discernable reason. They’re winning, decimating us. Then …. they suddenly become delicate flowers dropping dead across the landscape?!

Because of a weakened immune system!!??

Guess they missed ol’ Tom’s recent railings that vitamins cure everything.

Sheesh.

We stood in the dust under the trees, craning our heads down the road, waiting, waiting. The flies buzzed relentlessly; perhaps they’d heard about the gathering, too. We looked like a slow-motion carnival, as balloons, streamers, and signs swayed languidly in the breeeze. People clowned about, spontaneously dancing little jigs or practicing silly cheers.

But I stood still.

My signs, with their flowing decorations, moved more than I did. And the butterflies. Yes, the butterflies in my stomach moved most of all.

Somehow I found my voice and squeaked at the girl next to me:

“Are you nervous?”

She turned, smile quizzical, brow furrowed.

“What? No, not really.”

“Oh. Well. I’m …. nervous …. I guess ….” My squeak faded as she turned away.

As I glanced down at my signs, the tethered balloons hit me in the face. Nobody noticed. Impertinent little orbs, they bounced against my face again. I smacked them away and my signs came into focus. Bedecked with swirly flowers and spritely polka dots, they read:

“Welcome, Hermicka!”

“Welcome, Brandy!”

Even with the frou-frou, they seemed …. lacking. Not pretty enough. Not festive enough. I sighed. The butterflies fluttered faster.

But suddenly, a rumbling in the distance, a poof of dust, and around the bend lumbered the bus, loaded with our campers.

“They’re commming!!” someone yelled.

Butterflies forgotten, I was swept up in a surge of cheering, waving, jumping people. One sight of that tottering bus and our lazy, little carnival came to life, complete with screaming clowns:

“Alex! Sara! Welcome!! Max! Woo-hooo! Welcome, Paige! Heeey! Hermicka! Brandy!”

“Wel-commme!!”

As the bus chugged between us, the screams got louder. It was the kids, matching us scream for scream. Safety be damned, they jumped about wildly inside the bus, smushing their faces against the windows, straining for just a glimpse of something.

Their names on our signs.

Suddenly, it didn’t matter what my signs looked like. Just that they were.

The bus choked, stopped, and the butterflies churned again. I hope they like me. What if they don’t like me? Help, Lord.

Kids began streaming off the bus, finding their signs, claiming their counselors. Out of nowhere came two little girls: one black, one white.

“That’s me,” one said, pointing to a sign. “I’m Hermicka.” She was beautiful. And wary.

“And I’m Brandy,” the other one said. “We’re sisters.”

Brandy smiled up at me, showing crooked, stained teeth. She took my hand. Hermicka did not.

I gazed down at these girls and inhaled. Deeply.

Our week at camp had officially begun.

I’m sure the posts about camp will be coming soon. At least I think so. At least I hope so. It’s …. surprising me how hard it is to write about. To steal a line from Cordelia in “King Lear”:

“Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave my heart into my mouth.”

It’s a bit like that right now ….

Please be patient with me.

This is posted on my “About” page, but for those of you who’ve missed it ….

The artwork used in the banner is by Flemish master Peter Paul Rubens.  Entitled "Head of a Girl," it’s a portrait of Rubens’ daughter Clara Serena, painted in 1618 when she was seven years old.  Sadly, Clara Serena died only five years later.

But isn’t she just lovely?

A longtime fan of Rubens, I was enchanted from the moment I saw this portrait.  It was those eyes, with their frank, open gaze, innocent and wise, questioning and knowing, searching and trusting — all at once.

The look of someone who worships naked …

And since I haven’t yet figured out how to do thumbnails on the new site, here’s a link with the full portrait. It’s beautiful. Check it out:

Clara Serena

Since a place never really feels like home to me until I’m annoyed with a neighbor, I’ll say this:

It’s 4th of July weekend and Neighbor Down the Street still has his Christmas wreath on his front door.

To make matters worse, it’s simply hideous. Droopy. Awful. Annoying …

So I guess this means I can finally say, “There’s no place like home.”

Sigh ….

… is all I can say right now. I’m wiped out. In a good way.

And, no, I didn’t get sent home, as predicted. In a surprising development, camp ended and I came home.

Thanks for your prayers and encouragement, peeps. 🙂

More later — once I’ve finally slept.

Well, I’m off to camp. I’ve got “the girls” modestly tucked away and there is nary a chest hair in sight. After a week of “sideways hugging” My Beloved, I’m now expert in this tame, boring, asexual Christian hug. No one need fear my saucy girls being smushed up against them. All I need now are my old, ratty tennis shoes and I’m good to go.

Oh, and my journal. I’ll be taking copious notes for y’all. 😉

So no blogging until the 1st. Let’s meet back here then for debriefing.

Talk amongst yourselves. And go visit the people on my blogroll; there’s always something hoppin’ at their places.

Oh, and if you think of it, pray for me …. I’m gonna need it.

We’re expected to have little gifts for all the campers in our cabin. Ours has 2 counselors and 4 little girls. So our living room is now a crafting landmine that My Beloved, all 6’3″ of him, must tiptoe through with the grace of Fred Astaire lest he stomp on something and I explode. I am crazed with crafting and he, poor man, is trapped in the nuthouse.

Of course, when I’m finished with my precious, precious heart necklaces, I’m certain he’ll feel it was all worth it for him.

Except …. then begins The Trimming the Tote Bags!

You could say compliance is making me cuckoo. But nobody here’s gonna say that, right?

Right?