beyond the pale

I was loitering indecisively in the aisle of the arts and crafts store. Several feet away were a very pregnant girl and her fella, debating embellishments for their, uh, wedding invitations. Sweet.

Belated, but sweet.

Moments later, Pregnant Girl bent down to look at something. Fella didn’t offer to reach it for her. Instead, he stood there, sighing irritably. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the huffing and puffing of his flabby somach. From her squatting position, Pregnant Girl said to him:

“Will you hold these for me, please?”

Tough question, I guess, because Fella was silent. Then he replied, with sudden energy:

“What for?! You got two hands.”

Awww.

Don’tcha just love love?

(Names are changed in this post.)

I struggle so with a rebellious spirit. I’m not proud of it. But here’s just a recent, unfiltered example. A little bit of the “naked” for you.

I signed up, with my sister, to be a camp counselor at a Christian camp for abused kids: The Noble Kids Camp. Seemed like a good idea at the time. That is, until I endured the 5 – and – a – half hour orientation session for new counselors.

Now, there is only so much sitting and listening a butt can take. I know this because somehere in that third hour, butt and ears on overload, I snapped. Choked in the grip of the deathless tedium and unhinged by the smell of warm potato salad, the “good Christian me” who signed up for this quietly morphed into the “bad Christian me” who wanted to slither unnoticed out the door.

So this is my confessional.

I longed to hear about the kids, how their lives might be touched and transformed. I longed to hear how we might be used by the Lord, how the work, though draining, would be joyous and blessed. I longed to hear stories of God being in the small moments, using our strengths, using even our weaknesses, for His purposes.

I guess I was naive. I just wanted to be inspired.

Not anxious. Not scared. Sigh ….

But, alas, the all-consuming topic seemed to be “The Rules”:

Don’t hug the children front to front, only sideways hugs are allowed. That is the “Noble Kids Way.”

Don’t let them ride on your shoulders.

Don’t touch them in the pool or let them touch you.

Don’t give them snacks or candy; they eat at meal times only.

Don’t call crafts “crafts;” they must be called “activities” because some kids have a bad association with crafts.

Huh?

Don’t say “Good girl” or “Good boy;” we don’t want to qualify them in any way.

Don’t ever let your two campers out of your sight; stay within one foot of them at all times.

(Seems it would be easier just to tether us together.)

No cell phones allowed; (Oh, they don’t “work” here anyway); you may only call your loved ones from the pay phone on your breaks.

But we prefer you don’t make calls at all during the week of camp; it distracts you from your purpose.

No incoming calls allowed, unless it’s an emergency. Someone needs to be “dead or bleeding and on his way to the hospital before we will take the call.”

I sincerely hope I get no calls, not a one.

No sandals allowed; everyone must wear tennis shoes only. Because “if you wear sandals and twist your ankle, you’re useless to us and we’ll have to replace you.”

And, ladies, we were told, we don’t want to see your ‘girls.’

I was confused for a split second, then realized, “Ohhhh, those girls.” Then came the droning instructions on how to hide “the girls.” Minutes dragged by. I started to hate “the girls.” Not “my girls,” understand, just that cutesy, cloying phrase: “the girls.” I was overcome with a nearly irrestible desire to rip my top off right then and there, brazenly flashing “my girls” in front of the potato and macaroni salads.

And, men, no one wants to see your chest hair, so cover up at all times.

You are not to leave the area of the camp during your breaks. You may not hike or run on the trails during your breaks.

If we see you doing that, you will be sent home.

This was The Mantra for the orientation: “If we see you doing that, you will be sent home.” Each time they said it, I felt the certain doom of a sweaty 8 year old with the principal’s office yawning wide and dark before her. I knew I couldn’t possibly remember all the things that would get me sent home. Guess I’ll
pack light …

After a Time Out, say to the child: “Okay. Now please tell me what you think is the ‘Noble Kids Way.'”

My Beloved told me if I want to stay in this marriage, I am not allowed to say that. Period. (Sheesh. Another rule.)

The kids are watching and listening to everything you say.

You will most likely not get any sleep.

But it’s not about you.

Well, okay. I do understand that. But the counselors are still there, right? As human beings, correct? (Unless I’ve been sent home for showin’ “my girls” or allowing that bad word “good” to slip out.)

And finally:

Don’t question any of the rules. There’s a reason for everything, even if you don’t see it.

Resistance is futile.  You will be assimilated.

(I swear I heard them say this somewhere in that carbo-soaked 5th hour.)

So I feel scared and anxious. And not about the kids. I’ve worked with kids a lot. I run a kids drama camp every summer and I’m a Performing Arts teacher. A damn good one, frankly. So, no, it’s not the kids.

It’s the adults. It’s all these rules and restrictions that make me feel I cannot possibly be myself for fear of looming punishment. It’s the incessant “don’t, don’t, don’t” that makes me want to tear about, caterwauling, wearing sandals, showing my chest hair, and “do, do, doing” everything else I’m not “supposed” to do. It’s the lack of acknowledgement that we counselors, as human beings, have some small needs, too, like the need to feel appreciated, perhaps.

I guess, at a gut level, it’s the feeling of being trapped.

And I’m ashamed of feeling all this because it speaks of an immaturity on my part, rampant and rebellious.

But no, I’m not changing my mind because it is about the kids and I want to see if I can rise to the occasion. I do think many of these rules are somewhat ridiculous and confining. I do think the manner of the presentation was less rallying cry and more Emergency Alert. But I mustn’t allow that to take supremacy in my heart. Or rather: I need to stop allowing that to take supremacy in my heart.

So, peeps, on June 26th, I’m going to camp. Please pray for me. My attitude, as you can see, is abominable and, I’m certain, displeasing to the Lord, whose Word says:

Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation in which you shine like stars in the universe.

Phil. 2:14,15

And especially, pray for the kids that the Lord will be bringing to the camp.

Pray that He would tremendously bless them, even through the likes of me.

Father Tawny bolted past me yesterday carrying something. I glanced down. A bag!

Could it be?! Finally? Trash?!

No, peeps. Let that breath out. Just a small suitcase.

I admit. I sighed, disappointed.

He must not have heard me, because, seconds later, he matter-of-factly announced:

“Weeell, I’m off to Awwstraaawlia for two weeks!”

Moving fast as he always does, Tawny dropped the bag on the stairs. Quickly, I scooped it up for him, secretly checking its heft. Heavy for its size. Could be trash.

(Are you really going to Awwstraaawlia, Father Tawny?)

As I handed the bag back to him, he smiled and said:

“Awww, ahhren’t you kind?”

Hmm.

Wellll ….

Hmm.

I think he’s probably really going to Australia.

I’m riveted by this site.  It’s not G-rated and it’s not for the faint of heart.  It’s raw, broken, funny, desperate, bizarre — it feels like who we all are in our fallen flesh.  I dare you to go there and read just one secret.  You won’t be able to stop there.  Because somewhere, in someone else’s words, you’ll see yourself.

 

To the new incarnation of "Worship Naked"!

I hope you’ll make yourself at home here.  I know that anything new takes an adjustment, so let’s all grab a cuppa coffee, pull up a chair, and start gettin’ comfy.

Because, frankly, it’s too darn purty around here. 

So before I do anything else, I need to thank the fearless, faithful, and forbearing Wonder Woman who did basically everything ’round here.  I simply showed her the artwork I wanted and she ran with it — farther than I ever could have imagined!  I’ve been humbled by the tireless outpouring of her gifts and cheered by the simple sound of her sparkling laughter.  And in the midst of doing all this, no less!  She deserves all the accolades for any loveliness you see here.   

 Thank you, Wonder Woman, for your goodness to me.

 

(BTW: Any comments on posts before this date have not been transfered from the old site. If you wrote something particularly brilliant that you’re quite proud of, please go there and copy it, because I’m pretty sure I’m never going to get around to putting them here. I’m just being honest wich’ya. ;-))

Okay.  I’ve officially succumbed to the Gladys Kravitz gene that lies dormant in every woman.  And if you never watched — or heard of — "Bewitched," then, tragically, my reference is lost on you.

To clarify, I’m now a nosy, shameless, little spy. 

Let me explain.  There’s a good reason.  I mean, I  think "wanting to know, damnit!"  is a very good reason for spying and such.   Don’t you? 

There are 6 town homes in our fine complex.  The building sits on the edge of a canyon and each successive unit is a little farther down the hill, so to speak.  We reside in Unit 2 near the top of the hill.  The Focus Of My Madness lives in Unit 5, down the hill.  So anybody in a unit with a higher number passes by our unit every day.

The FOMM is an Episcopalian priest who moved here last fall from Australia.  He’s not a shy fellow, that one.  His first day here he knocked on our door, thrust his hand towards me, and barked his name: "Tawny." 

I paused.  "Your name’s Tawny?"

"No.  Taw-nee."

It sounded the same. 

"Do you mean Tony, maybe?"  I asked.

"Yeeece.  That’s riawght.  Tawny."

I quickly learned that if you allow Tawny a face lock, he will explain in breathtaking detail all the subtlety and intrigue that is Aussie rules football.  Not that I mind much learning about this; I’m just not likely to convert from good, ol’, banal American football, which is clearly what Tawny wants.  But it’s interesting in a sort of relentless, cross-cultural way.

What’s more interesting, though, is this:

My Beloved, who is good and kind and neighborly, frequently takes all 6 trash cans to the curb for trash day.   The other evening we were sitting and reading in companionable, brainy silence, when My Beloved looked up from his book and proclaimed:

"Tony never has any trash in his trash can."

"Huh??" 

I thought I’d heard wrong.  I had no idea that what would follow would be a dizzying conversation, ending in a truly shocking allegation.  My Beloved repeated:

"Tony never has any trash in his trash can."

I just stared, so he continued, clearly annoyed:

"How can he not have trash?!"

"I dunno.  He lives alone.  He probably doesn’t have a lot of trash."

"He has to have some!  Toilet paper rolls, take-out containers, junk mail.  Something!"

"Well, maybe it was just this week.  Maybe he was gone and we didn’t know it."

"No!  That’s not it!  It’s every week."

"Well, what’s the big deal?  I don’t get it."

Then came the stunning accusation from Mr. Neighborly:

"I think he puts his trash in other people’s cans so he doesn’t have to take out his trash can!"

I gasped.  But, suddenly, it was all so clear.  My Beloved was right.  He must be right.   Now that I thought of it, I’d never, ever seen Tawny, who walks by our place every darn day, carrying any trash.  Laundry, yes.  Briefcase, yes.  Grocery bags, yes.  Trash, no.  Never.  At least not during daylight hours.  So if he had trash, he’d been taking it out under cover of darkness. 

Why?  What kind of flimflam was this guy running?!  It was unheard of.  Diabolical.  A man of the cloth becoming a man of the Trash Can Scam?  Outrageous.

That was it.  Never mind the frenzy of snap judgments, the flood of unsubstantiated claims.  Gladys Kravitz came roaring awake.  I felt a sudden, rash urge to dump trash in his can.  But I did not.  And I have not. 

Because I am a true hero.

Still …. I wonder …. where is  the trash?  The mysterious, invisible trash?

I’m not proud of it.  But I can’t help it. 

Gladys still peeps when he scurries past the window.

From A. W. Tozer: "Many tender-minded Christians fear to sin against love by daring to inquire into anything that comes wearing the cloak of Christianity and breathing the name of Jesus. They dare not examine the credentials of the latest prophet to hit their town lest they be guilty of rejecting something which may be of God. They timidly remember how the Pharisees refused to accept Christ when He came, and they do not want to be caught in the same snare, so they either reserve judgment or shut their eyes and accept everything without question. This is supposed to indicate a high degree of spirituality. But in sober fact it indicates no such thing. It may indeed be evidence of the absence of the Holy Spirit.

"Gullibility is not synonymous with spirituality. Faith is not a mental habit leading its possessor to open his mouth and swallow everything that has about it the color of the supernatural. Faith keeps its heart open to whatever is of God, and rejects everything that is not of God, however wonderful it may be. Try the spirits is a command of the Holy Spirit to the Church. We may sin as certainly by approving the spurious as by rejecting the genuine. And the current habit of refusing to take sides is not the way to avoid the question. To appraise things with a heart of love and then to act on the results is an obligation resting upon every Christian in the world. And the more as we see the day approaching."

Wow. It seems I’m right about the menfolk and their “cry place.” No one wants to talk about it!

Well, I understand. I do. I really hope I didn’t offend.

I was just interested, is all. 😉

Got this from The Anchoress, but I changed a few of the “questions.” Because I can. (Can’t I?)

A is for Age – of my sister’s dog? Okay. 2.
B is for Booze – Are you kidding? I was raised Baptist, so I’m a booze wimp. I like Kahlua and creme, though. But mostly the creme.
C is for Cookie you crave – These lucious, melty, crumbly chocolate chip shortbread cookies from a bakery in My Beloved’s hometown. Heavenly.
D is for Dating tip you’d give your son or daughter – “Well, son, don’t leave that bloody-nose-stopping tissue in your nose for your date to see. Most girls won’t like that. I know I didn’t.”
E is for Essential items to bring to a party – Believable excuse for a hasty exit.
F is for Favorite song at the moment – Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been listening to Eva Cassidy, “Fields of Gold” a lot.
G is for Goof off thing to do – Jump on the big trampoline with the nephews and niece.
H is for Hometown – Well, there’s the town where I was born and grew up, and then there’s the town I consider my hometown — Seattle, WA.
I is for Instrument you play – Piano, voice, flute.
J is for Jam or Jelly you like – Blackberry Jam or Green Pepper Jelly.
K is for Kids – Yes, it is.
L is for Living arrangement – Well, sheesh! I’m married. Not livin’ in sin, you know.
M is for Mom’s name – She hates her name, so I won’t say. Trust me. It’s bad.
N is for Name of first crush – Grade school. He was a dreamboat named Bosco Wasco. Seriously. I just love that name.
O is for Overexposed celebrity? – Paris Hilton.
P is for Phobias – Claustrophobia, a bit. Pyrophobia, but I have a really good reason for that one.
Q is for Quote you like – “If you want to improve, be content to be thought foolish and stupid” Epictetus
R is for Relationship that lasted longest – My Beloved. And it’s the one I want to last the longest.
S is for Siblings – Two. A brother and a sister.
T is for Texas, ever been? – No! Everyone knows you don’t mess with Texas.
U is for Unique trait – I loathe name tags. It’s quite irrational.
V if for Vegetable you love – Love, love, love green beans and have them frequently for dinner. I just loves me da green beans.
W is for Worst trait – Because I couldn’t choose the worst of the worst, I called downstairs to My Beloved:

“What’s my worst trait!?”

There was a long pause. Then a very considered:

“I … don’t … kno-o-o-ow …”

Then:

“Well, your worst trait is setting your husband up for an all-day fight on a holiday weekend.”

So let’s go with that.

X – is for Xtra Credit, did you ever do it in school? – Hmm … I was geeky enough to do it, but also geeky enough not to need to do it. Sweet Moses.
Y is for Yummy food you make – Coconut Buttercream Cupcakes. I’d make them for you, but you would fall in love with me.
Z is for Zodiac sign – Leo.

All right. Who’s in? Let me know if you put this up at your place.