Circumcision

There are no hymns that include the word circumcision. I'm surprised. Every other dominant theme in scripture gets a mention in hymnody and there are so many cool things that rhyme with circumcision - mission, vision, collision, television. 

I'm starting a dandy hymn in my head right now.

I'm not entering into any kind of pro or con circumcision discussion here, but there is something about altering your flesh that makes entering into a covenant take on a certain intensity. One of my favorite passages in the Bible is Jeremiah 4:4, "Circumcise yourselves to the LORD, remove the foreskin of your hearts." 

That's quite the image and part of the reason I'm not real hip on spirituality. 

I know that's not something pastors are supposed to say, but I'm always a bit wary of anything labeled spiritual. We're people devoted to the incarnation (enfleshment) of God so I like to see some flesh attached to my spirituality.

Carnal evening at the Stage-Harvey's

I'm thinking about starting a carnality movement. Praying in the midst of incense, icons, and beautiful music saved my faith in a way that listening to lots of words or trying to sit still have often left me wondering if there really is anything besides my navel. 

I need some flesh. I don't buy into the "I feel closer to God in the woods" stuff either. You will never have a loving and forgiving relationship with a tree and the loving/forgiving stuff seems central to God's heart. A tree may be a moment of beauty and appreciation, but the God in scripture only hangs out in those moments for a bit.

Lying in the dewy grass, holding hands with someone you love, looking at the stars is a glimpse of the carnality movement. Some grace, some beauty, and some humility all wrapped into one fleshy moment. 

Eating lunch with a bunch of crazy kids who are telling you stories about their families, often a mix of comedy and tragedy, is a glimpse of carnality. All summer I get to be a guest at God's table and have my faith restored moment by moment. 

Not always in a sweet way. They make me zany sometimes. We get frustrated with each other, sometimes lies are told, excuses made, hurtful names are called. We wrestle through the ugly and stay in relationship. That's a God moment.

The church should be messy and fleshy. Ours often is and would be worse if it weren't for Saint Alice. But I'm consoled since neither circumcision or crucifixion are overly tidy affairs. Being in relationship with a God who insists on love and forgiveness is not an otherworldly, mystic experience. It's showing up in the flesh with the foreskins of our hearts removed.

I've got a great demonstration about circumcision for when I teach the middle schoolers the story of Abraham. Just in case you ever need me as entertainment at a party.

Simba

I wish I had profound thoughts when I climb mountains. It would be a fabulous time to figure out the mystery of the universe, instead I'm trying to breathe
and not whine about how the trail is all up. Whose stinking idea was it to make the entire trail straight up?

Or I sing the song from the cheesy Christmas show when Santa teaches the Abominable Snowman to walk, "You just put one foot in front of the other and soon you'll be walking along." I don't know any other words so I just sing that over and over in my head. I'm not sure I remember anything else from that movie either.

We had a great climb the other day and I realized that I will need to start enjoying time by myself because my entire family hikes faster than me now. There was one part of the trail where I caught up and there might have been some whining and weary legs, which is always an invitation to share the story of climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro.

It's been almost seventeen years, but the memories of the final ascent to the peak are vivid. They wake you up at midnight and then you walk switchbacks in scree for the next seven to eight hours. You can't see anything except the bobbing lights of other fools zigzagging up the mountain. I sat down and refused to go any further. I do have a stubborn streak in me. I was done.

Our guide gave me a moment and then told me what he has probably told nine million people, "You are simba; you are strong." (Simba is Swahili for lion and rafiki is Swahili for friend, in case you missed the Lion King footnotes). I believe I  roared and kept going until I sat down and he reminded me again. "You are simba."

We made it to the top and could barely see our hands in front of our faces the snow was so intense. My favorite part is that we took a picture sitting on the sign that said we are at the highest point in Africa so it just looks like us in a typical snowstorm in every place we've ever lived. It kind of stunk, but what a fabulous life lesson.

I pushed every baby into this world with our guide's words in my ears. Every time I have wanted to curl up and quit because something was too hard, I hear him reminding me "I am simba." And there are times when grief or pain seem so tremendous that I feel like I'm in the dark watching the lights zigzag up the endless slope.

I suppose that was some solace last week as I listened to reports from Charleston, family medical stuff, memories of lives lost way too soon. All of that sorrow of life collecting in a moment and swallowing one into darkness makes it easy to sit down and refuse to keep going. Except for the bobbing lights and the simba reminder. I kind of love the whole simba thing not only because I like being a lion, but for the fabulous baptismal moment in Lion King when Simba looks into the pool of water and hears his father say, "Remember who you are."

And I try when I am tired or overwhelmed to remember who I am and just "put one foot in front of the other, and soon you'll be walking along". . . That song always gets stuck in my head.

Awkward

Sometimes I don’t know what to say; not because the situation is overwhelming and I can’t think of anything appropriate to say. I can actually ride those moments out pretty well, often saying inappropriate things. 

I don’t know what to say when I’m at a barbecue and women are talking about somewhat normal things. I’m slightly (read tremendously) awkward in such situations. I share too much or glaze over because such conversation misses me. 

Same thing happens at the back door at the end of church. I wish there was a script for shaking hands after church because I run out of small talk quickly. The other week I started making weird word associations and saying things like, “unicorns, ponies, rainbows, miniature cows” as folks exited church. It cemented in the congregation’s mind that I’m not normal and entertained me more than commenting on the weather. 

Bus stop when I was eight.
Check out the fabulous Muppet lunchbox.

I think my social awkwardness goes back to getting out of the bathtub when I was eight. This is a different naked story than when I got a spanking and my mother discovered me in the bathroom with my bare butt in the sink. She asked me what I was doing and like any Looney Tune’s fan I said, “My biscuits are burning.”

No, this is a different weird. I remember my mom walking into the bathroom when I was eight and I realized I was naked. Eight is right around that age when we lose our garden glory (referring to the naked in Eden stuff). This is my first vivid memory of feeling embarrassed and exposed. 

So, I used words like I often do to cover my vulnerability. I’ll never forget looking at my mom washing her hands in the sink and saying, “You always want to dry your face before your butt.” 

The moment demanded such great profundity. 

To this day when a situation makes me feel vulnerable and exposed, when I really have no idea what to say, I say to myself, “You always want to dry your face before your butt.” Maybe sometimes I say it out loud, but it makes me laugh and brings a situation back into perspective. Sometimes it’s okay to just feel awkward and not say anything. Great profundity is rarely great or profound.

I’m not good at pretending to be normal, but it probably wouldn’t hurt for me to be quiet more and “profound” less.

Leave a Little

My husband is finally home.

I apologize for all the PDA, especially to the kitchen ladies at church who suddenly became very interested in washing dishes. I promise not to make out in the church kitchen again (when someone else is there).

It's a little weird. He has no hair so he randomly frightens me coming around a corner in the house. He also put a rubber band on the bottom of the tube of toothpaste so I'm forced to use it methodically, but don't worry I just pulled out another tube.

This made me realize a quirky habit of mine. I'm not quite ready to put it into the "bad habit" category, but it could be annoying to some.

I have a tendency (along with three other people in the house) to put an item back when there is a little bit left instead of using the last of it and having to crunch the cardboard, cut out the box top, and throw away the plastic. What makes this especially annoying is I will open a new package of aforementioned item.

This is completely justifiable with cereal. The end of a box of cereal is just gross, but there might be someone who enjoys particles of sugar and wheat so I don't want to throw it away. It has nothing to do with being too lazy to crunch the cardboard, cut out the box top and throw away the plastic.

It's probably less justifiable with potato or tortilla chips. There really isn't anyone who wants stale or crunched chips, but I like to be on the safe side.

One of the first things Kirt did when he came home was throw away all the bags of stale, crunched, and pulverized food. My mom organized the Tupperware so he had the time.

I'm not normally a lazy person so I'm trying to figure out some other motivation I might have for leaving a little bit.

Some of it might be related to not wasting food and resources. I try to use things up, but crushed Cocoa Pebbles are beyond my palate.

Some of it might be related to a weird cultural thing. With my grandma, if you cleared your plate, then you got seconds, but if you left a bite, then it meant it was good but you were full. More than a bite was unforgivable.

Some of it might be a denial of death. That's probably what most of our quirky habits relate to. If I leave a little bit, then I don't have to face the basic tenet of life that everything ends. I can fool myself into imagining that there is always something left. I can pretend something new is accessible while still clinging to the old.

Or it could just be that the end of cereal is gross and I'm too lazy to throw it away.

Piles

I love piles.

Not the kind of piles I had to pick up tonight in my yard before mowing (twice in one week-what the heck?). I suppose I shouldn't whine about all the mowing since I did get out of shoveling snow this mild winter.

Speaking of Kirt being gone for sixteen weeks and finally coming home this weekend, I need to actually put sheets on the bed. I've been sleeping in my cocoon that I normally only reserve for hotel trips so I don't get heebie-jeebies from hotel sheets. That's probably a different blog when I know you better.

No, I'm actually thinking about how many piles I created in sixteen weeks without someone nagging me to go through them. Just a helpful hint-if you ask me to do something and I don't do it instantly, then it has gone into a pile (aka black hole).

Hike up Thunder Mountain when I should have been
organizing piles

I say I know what is in my piles, but I'm lying. Sorry. It's normally all the stuff I find tedious or had to move off the kitchen table for unexpected company and card playing.

So on one of the billion sunny days recently when my flesh had oozing sun sores (whatever happened to living in a rain forest), I started on my piles. It revealed to me a lot about my priorities. I tend to pile receipts and coupons thinking I will organize them better. There are piles of information about our stinking wireless account where I know all customer service representatives by first name and only touch that pile when I need to earn an indulgence for some horrifying sin I'm thinking of committing.

I also found $100 in checks and a picture of an adorable child whose identity is a mystery. Warranties and anything about electronics go into a pile. Magazine subscription information that I'm sure will make me a better person go into the same pile as the magazines that haven't even made it to the rack in the bathroom yet.

I look at these piles and all the things that I think I will get around to and realize I will never get around to them. They normally end up in the recycler and I do fine without them. The $100 was a fun discovery, but nothing else earth shattering.

I'll still pile stuff so don't imagine this is a major lifestyle changer, but it did make me take stock of my priorities.

My priorities:
1. Tending relationships. Being in right relationship with people, God, myself, creation is my top priority. If I get out of whack in my relationships, then everything else falls apart.

2. Finding joy. I try to balance the tedious responsibility of sustaining life with humor, gratitude, and moments of spontaneous wildness. I love my work, my family, where I live, our friends, and a million other things around me so I try to make sure I keep appreciating those things that bring me joy even when responsibility is weighing heavily on me.

3. Being healthy. Eating right and staying active are vital to me along with paying my bills, keeping commitments, and growing in my thinking. Hiking and playing will often trump housework and organizing. I've yet to hear someone say on her deathbed that she wished she spent more time cleaning house.

I realize I  don't need more stuff or paperwork for any of my priorities. That's a good check in for me. I'm pretty sure I didn't recycle anything too vital, but if you are waiting to hear my response on something, you might want to send it again.

Did I mention my husband is coming home this weekend? I hope the excitement over the lack of piles will make him overlook all the dead plants.