Football

There was a very sweet moment hiking with my beloved when he started to talk about football. He talked for ten minutes about OSU and the big ten and standings and southern teams. And I dutifully said uh-huh until he turned around and laughed.

I hate football. Unless I'm playing. I like tackling. And throwing the ball, but I don't like breaking my nails when I catch the ball. My favorite football game ever was with all the drama majors in college. I think we gave up on the ball and just did combat mime tackling.

I went to an Ohio State game once. The stadium seats over 100,000 people and each ticket goes for at least $65. I sat there doing the math and had a moment of horror. In case you can't do the math that fast, it's a lot of money.

I try not to get all judgmentally, but holy. Watching football just seems like a strange priority.

I hear folks talk about not having enough time and money. I participate in the talk more than I like, but when I do a reality check it is a question of priorities.

One of the greatest lessons I ever had in money management came when I was a T.A. in seminary. I graded papers for $8 an hour and I could normally grade three or four papers an hour. Those weren't always the most entertaining hours.

What it did for me was helped me evaluate costs. If something cost $24, then it meant three hours of work and twelve papers. Was it worth twelve papers? I lived without a lot of things that year.

I worry about the burden of debt folks carry and what it does to our soul. I worry about our sense of time being so scarce. There are many social justice issues around people making a living wage and our long work week. I don't want to devalue that conversation, but I also think we need to be aware of our priorities around money and time.

Where and how do we spend time and money as individuals and as a society? It's well worth tracking yourself for a week to see. We vote with our money and choices way more than our whining in a blog.

And now I laugh at myself after buying a month of TV so I can watch the World Series. But baseball is completely different.

Really?

Halloween is not my favorite holiday. It's in the same league as pranks. In my mind, they are a lot of work to do something mildly wild, which in the end makes more work for me to clean-up. Every party needs a pooper.

I do like the excuse to buy all the Junior Mints and Skittles I desire. I'm not much of a candy person, but those are my definite weakness.

We did carve pumpkins, or I should say the kids and Kirt carved pumpkins while I sang along to Monster Mash and drank cider. My pumpkins have had triangle eyes and jagged teeth since I was first trusted with a sharp object. Since neither creative design nor sharp objects are my forte, we're all a lot safer with me singing along to songs off my first album ever purchased with my own money - Goofy Gold. Loved that record.

Locked and Loaded  Cop
costume for Teens 

And costumes. I'm pretty sure I was Paul Bunyan every year. I love flannel.  Elijah wants to be someone scary who carries a chainsaw. Not a pretend chainsaw but a real one.

Okay, we settled for an outlandishly overpriced zombie jester costume with a scary staff. While looking for his costume, I also checked out possibilities for the girls.

Wow. Teen girl costumes. Not okay.

I'm all about expressing yourself through your clothes and awareness of your body. I love exploring how different clothes bring out different aspects of my personality. There are times I like to wear clothes that make me feel sexy. Kirt did nix the cute little police outfit I wanted because it looked too much like work and it was expensive. Holy.

But, I struggle with marketing Halloween costumes that look like porn stars to teen girls while guys get to wear outfits that look warm. So maybe part of my indignation is the thought of my girls freezing their exposed flesh off since it is normally a bitterly cold rain for Halloween.

And part of my indignation is the blatant over-sexing of my daughters. They can express themselves and their beauty without showing half a butt cheek. I'm not a purity fanatic, but a little modesty is helpful. Or a sense that we can get attention as women without being scantily clad.

At least, I think we can. Then I remember reality. It is actually hard to get attention unless you pull the drama queen act, or the sickly take care of me role, or the big boobs and short skirt schtick.

I know showing respect for women has come a long way. I've noticed huge changes in the way female pastors are treated. And then I walk into a room and get ignored, dismissed or shunned and I remember. . . I should have worn my Wonder Woman costume.

Moves like Jagger

I thought of Jeff Harris this week; I hope he is well. 

Jeff and I were buddies in the modern dance class all theater majors were required to take. We were equally graceful even though he was three times my size and we were equally humiliated walking around in leotards and tights. He was a very large black man and I was a tiny uncoordinated white girl so we did wonderfully together. I think we spent most of the class dying of laughter watching each other in the surround sound mirrors. 

I'm currently taking an acting class in the Alexander technique. Don't ask me for details about what the heck that means, but we did lots of moving and if Jeff was there we would have been giggling.

But he wasn't, so I paid attention and tried not to stare at the other participants or worry about what they thought. 

We did explore our own and each other's bones. It was weird and fascinating. One of the insights I kind of got out of exploring all the stinking bones in our body (who knew there were so many?) was learning to trust the support our skeleton gives us.

The Alexander technique is being present in the moment and aware of all the supports you have around you and letting go of what is weighing on you (I think). So you feel all the bones in your feet so you know you are not walking on peg legs but a flexible structure able to provide for your needs.

That's not really the super interesting part and I know I'm not summarizing this perfectly, but the teacher said, "this technique is finding the space between stimulus and response for freedom of choice." 

And the relationship between student and teacher is not one of figuring out the right way, but the teacher observes what the student is doing and the student experiments and adjusts.

I believe that's what creativity is all about. It is not looking for the one right answer, but having the space to observe, experiment, and adjust. 

So even though I felt kind of hokey walking around the room, I didn't feel judged or freaked out about not doing it right. 

This is why I'm doing an acting class on movement and not yoga. I know I should do yoga, but I feel like I would have to embrace a life of half-truths. "Yes I ate homemade granola this morning" (with a frosted cherry Pop Tart and a billion cups of coffee). 

This class was about creating space where awareness was raised and options explored without condemnation. 

Sometimes I wonder if the violence in our society is a response to our lack of creativity. Violence is such a dull way to resolve conflict (unless Jackie Chan is involved). As our schools and culture focus more on the "right" answer, I worry we don't foster creative problem solving well.

So I'm looking like an idiot for all of us. I'm trying to learn a bit more about this space between stimulus and response where we can find the freedom of choice. I'm trying to learn more about trusting our bodies and trusting a weird group of folks willing to take this class. I'm still laughing at myself even without Jeff there, but I do miss sharing the joy of humiliation.

Crying Fool

Three things I made Shepherd of the Valley aware of before they hired me.

1. I hate Precious Moments statues. No idea why they bother me other than their big eyes freak me out and I promise to smash them to tiny bits if anyone ever gets me one. They are like bunnies and will start reproducing if I turn my back and then they are everywhere.

2. I will steal your pen if you let me come anywhere near it. I absorb them into my skin unconsciously.

3. I cry. And my nose runs. And my face gets blotchy. If you want me to stay in emotional control all the time, then . . . I don't really have anything to finish that with because it's just not an option. I wear everything I'm feeling and most things I'm thinking pretty close to the surface.

So it probably won't come as a huge shock that I cried at the memorial I recently did. It was sad - a beautiful young life cut way too short. I made it through three eulogies just fine, even with young men crying. But, the fiance cut me to the core with her dashed hopes of a life together and her profound sorrow.

Everyone was crying so I don't feel too badly, but I did have to ask the kind lady in the front to pass me some tissues because my nose was starting to drip on my sermon. Pleasant. Especially in front of hundreds of people.

No idea what I'm doing, but I look like a dork

It could have been embarrassing, but I didn't feel embarrassed. I get embarrassed when I realize I just went through my whole day with my pants on backwards or my shirt inside out. Not that it's ever happened. I normally realize halfway through my day.

I didn't expect to cry. I didn't know the young man or the family and on paper he seemed a troubled young man. It was in the midst of the fiance's stories when he became every child, brother, and love. 

I realized later that the best way to keep the tears at bay and pain under control is to judge. If I go through all the reasons why bad things happen to other families and why they won't happen to mine, then I can insulate, pretend to be coated in God's Teflon. If I judge and set myself above, then I can protect myself from their pain. That's when we pity. We stand above others and call them less fortunate, and shake our heads and fingers as if we care, but it's got judgment written all over it.

So I suppose I'd rather cry than judge. I'd rather be blotchy than distant.

Jesus doesn't call us into pity or judgment, but compassion. I would tell you that the Greek for compassion is literally "bowel movement" and my favorite King James passage is Philippians 1:8 where Paul writes, "For God is my record, how greatly I long after you all in the bowels of Jesus Christ."  I would tell you those things, but my dad is threatening to stop reading these blogs if I mention bodily functions one more time.

So, compassion is to suffer with our neighbor. That doesn't always mean tears and I totally realize tears can be dramatic and manipulative. I try to save those tears for when I get pulled over by the police. 

Compassion is being with each other in our pain without judgment and condemnation, but a loving hand to hold and a tissue to offer. It doesn't mean giving people puppy dog eyes, but showing up to help carry the pain of loss. 

Sometimes I wish I could control my tears (and snot) better, but the only way is to disconnect and I think in my line of work folks would rather keep tissue boxes handy.