Easter Bunny

There were gaps I expected without Kirt here. Don't tell him, but the Tupperware is in utter disarray. I knew Hannah's genetic leanings when she opened the closet and let out a great sigh of disgust. If God meant plastic storage containers to be neatly stacked, then they wouldn't be such random sizes without matching lids.

I also suspected that I wouldn't change my clothes regularly. I try to quiet the voice that tells me I can wear the same thing as yesterday and nobody will notice, but the clothes are sitting there in a nice pile by my bed so I have to put them back on. There really is nothing I hate more than standing in my closet staring at all the different shades of black and brown figuring out if they go together.

But the Easter Bunny gap surprised me. I'm sorry if someone is reading this who still lives in the comfort of a large bunny hiding eggs around the yard for the ravens to eat and then seekers to find, but the Easter Bunny is Kirt. Always has been. I got a shot at tooth fairy, but lost it once I misspelled "ferry" on the return note. I'm still the one who sneaks the teeth out from under the pillow (while humming the Mission Impossible theme mind you), but that's all the more responsibility I get.

I'm a pastor. That doesn't mean I have theological issues with the symbol of fertility hiding chocolate treats; find new life where you can. It does mean that I'm really busy the weekend of Easter. I'm not whining; I love worship. Okay, I am whining because I don't love dyeing eggs, hiding them at the prime time to avoid the birds, and making up cool baskets. Those are not my gifts.

The Easter Bunny has always visited the Stage-Harvey house during nap time on Sunday, but I am normally napping during that time so it's as magical for me as the rest of the house. Maybe this is a good year to break out of the pagan rituals, but that feels a bit lame and lazy. None of the kids believe in the bunny, but they know if they say it out loud then the gig is up. Anyway it's fun to watch them navigate all the dog poop looking for eggs and it's really fun when they find one of last year's eggs with a prize still inside.

There should be greater profundity than my participation in pagan rites and the fact that I miss my partner and companion, but there isn't. I make a lousy Easter Bunny, but I'm a complete failure at the Lone Ranger. Don't get me wrong, I run a well organized household (except for the Tupperware). I am just feeling intensely aware that we all need companions. They don't need to come in the form of spouses, but we all need folks who walk with us and pick up where we struggle, or give us permission to let it go, or tell us to change our clothes.

Band

For just a moment at the band concert tonight, I regretted being so lazy in band. I hereby apologize to my parents for being such a goob about practicing, my continual competition with some guy with poofy 80's hair for last chair, and my attempt to make it an entire year without playing a note. There is a devious side of me that says if I can't excel, then I will make sure I am the worst and at least entertained.

I was never cut out to be in marching band. I might have been a decent musician, but once hand-eye coordination, rhythm, and paying attention were added to the mix, I was doomed for failure. At least it gave me the great memory of getting distracted and being on the opposite side of the field from the other two hundred band members. Thank you Mr. Swearingen for yelling my favorite defining line for life, "Stage, what are you doing?"

I regret I never learned the skill of practicing. I could work hard at school, but I've never been good at practicing skills. I sew like a bat out of hell. I garden well if Kirt does it and I pick stuff later. I can do some beading and have several projects started that will never be finished.

What I regretted for a moment at the concert tonight was discipline. I don't think it was just laziness. If I am honest with myself, then I have to admit I feared not doing something well and looking like a fool. I would rather be a fool outright than try hard and still fail.

I've learned some discipline along the way. I know I'm a lousy pastor and human being in general if I don't practice morning prayer. This will sound strange, but I'm not a naturally thoughtful or caring individual. I'm deeply compassionate and feel the suffering of others intensely, but I'll probably never remember your birthday or send flowers. Heck, I packed up two care packages for my husband before I realized I forgot to put a note in them.

The discipline of morning prayer helps me practice being present with God, hearing scripture and thinking of others. It helps me practice getting out of the way of my day and being present with the folks I will meet. I pray through my to-do list and get perspective on my priorities. It's not quite like the tedium of practicing the saxophone and I'm not convinced I'm getting any better at what I do, but the practice of prayer helps me be a bit more gracious with myself and others, a bit more willing to risk and look like a fool.

I'm excited that my girls practice their instruments. I was never going to be a concert saxophonist, and truthfully maybe I don't regret playing shadow puppets with the poofy 80's hair guy during band.

Brown Eyes

I just can't do it. I can't look into those brown eyes staring up at me, pleading to stay and refuse.

I'm not talking about the guinea pigs, even though every day the thought of what they taste like breaded and deep fried crosses my mind. It has nothing to do with hunger, but the fact that they create their body weight in poop every single day. We're not getting rid of them anytime soon, don't worry. I love them in that obligated kind of way.

I can't bring myself to get rid of my hiking boots. I'm not sure how old they are, but it must be close to a decade. My mom got me a lovely, much needed new pair I wear around the house, but I can't bring myself to wear them outside without great feelings of betrayal.

I know this is ridiculous, but I can hear them chiding me about all the streams we have crossed, cliffs we've scrambled, and roots we've navigated without twisted ankles or worse. They have been faithful through all the adventures and now that the tread is worn and gashes are deep, I am moving on?

My feet have never been easy to accommodate so perhaps it is pure practicality that drives my resistance to parting ways and experimenting with a new pair. Why is it boots wear out just when you get them worn in? Knowing myself like I do, it has nothing to do with practicalities. I'm emotionally attached to the memories of where those boots have taken me.

I've packed child after child through the woods of the Upper Peninsula, picking up beautiful  leaves in brilliant colors, gathering blueberries, and wandering through wilderness. We hiked the Chilkoot following the trail of the ancient miners. I might have gotten a little slap happy at one point and jumped from boulder to boulder pretending I was Tigress from Kung Fu Panda. Did they let me tumble? No. We've trekked up every accessible mountain around us with stories of sweat, blood, and tears. They are a part of me and that is always hard to let go. I thought duct tape might work for some spots, but I know it is time.

Hiking out to the glacier yesterday with Keith and Logan reminded me it was time. The boots I depend on weren't quite the traction or support I need. But, there was also a lovely moment as Keith and I were talking about Kirt at academy.

Keith said something like, "I think I know why you get all weepy when we go off to college or adventures, you know we'll come back different. It's kind of that way with Kirt now, isn't it?" Of course it is. All of it is exciting and as it should be, but it does feel like just when you wear something in comfortably, it changes and something new comes along.

The new hiking boots will be great and they don't smell. It's a good thing.

I know that I will get rid of the old ones, but I  need some ritual act and words to mark the transition as something sacred. I will need to mark a moment of thanksgiving and appreciation as corny as it is. I did find a lovely prayer for the disposal of Bibles that have served their time, "The pages once read, now brittle and yellowing, are now returned for renewal. May they make new paper on which truth, beauty, and joy may be known." 

I kind of like that. "The cow hide once supportive and full of adventure, now worn and tired, are now returned for renewal. May they decompose and let truth, beauty, and joy be made known in these new boots made out of some synthetic material that will probably never decompose." Maybe it loses something in translation, but it will be a few more weeks before I actually bring myself to trade so I've got time to work on it.

 

Toothpaste

One of the dearest things my husband said before he left for academy (only 101 days left) was, "Who will push the toothpaste up for you from the bottom of the tube?"

That makes me laugh every single time I think of it. I am one of those cretans who squeeze the tube right in the middle, and for 18 years my husband has never mentioned it. I had no idea until the other night when I paid attention to myself. Luckily, it's a really big tube.

I will add it to my list of annoying habits right after leaving cupboard doors open and hiding keys in brilliant places. I would consider that my most irritating trait, except I would never clean off counters,  tables and desks if I weren't hunting for my keys. I think my subconscious tells me to put them on top of the toaster so I organize on a regular basis, but that is another blog.

I often argue that love is being able to speak the truth about the other's challenges without the fear of the other walking away. That still is very much a healthy part of relationship, but that stinking toothpaste made me realize something else. Love is learning to ignore and compensate.

I'm not talking enabling destructive behavior, but there is a gift in learning to pretend that poltergeists move my keys and open the cupboards. It's probably hard to blame them for squeezing the toothpaste. Those irritations easily become personal and we start to look at each other with brewing resentment. Rarely does big stuff destroy a marriage; it's the tiny annoyances and nagging that eat away at love. Ignore the little stuff. Or yell about it, but make sure you laugh and smooch after.

For 18 years, my beloved has ignored and dutifully pushed up the toothpaste. He's not a saint*, there are times I irritate the snot out of him and he casts me that look of utter frustration bordering on dislike.

That's when I follow the advice in National Geographic. They did an article on the nature of love and the need to stare into your beloved's eyes for two minutes to release endorphins. So I make him do it and yes, I have poked him in the eye in the process. As hokey as it is, there is something lovely after all these years about staring into each other's eyes. Releases endorphins just thinking about it.

Relationships are wild adventures, often full of disappointment and irritations. Some you deal with and some you learn to ignore; God give us the wisdom to know the difference.

*Of course, he is a saint in the baptized, holy child of God kind of way.

Blended Fish

I have no creativity left after an evening wearing a cape and putting fish in a blender. I'm just not sure where you go from there.

Dan Akroyd Bass-O-Matic

We had good giggles tonight at our Fat Tuesday Follies. I didn't hear the final tally on pancakes, but I know it was in the hundreds. We handed out wild prizes, listened to some great music, and also heard some silly songs. I have to say Virgil Fredenberg's rendition of "If My Nose Was Running Money" was a highlight for my life.

The crowd was a mix from several congregations and many of our food pantry clients who are now convinced that we are a bit off the norm. It was actually entertaining to explain time and again what we were doing.

We live in the tension between feast and fast, sorrow and joy, silly and serious.

I love the wild antics and rich foods of Fat Tuesday and I love the silence and confessions of Ash Wednesday. I can't live one place or the other for too long, but I appreciate the rhythm of them both. I love the seasons of the church that make me joyful when I take life too seriously and somber when I have grown too flippant.

Now I'm just tired.

Erik Estrada

http://pixgood.com/erik-estrada-chips-thumbs-up.html

When I was thirteen, my room was adorned with posters of Erik Estrada, Tom Selleck and Tom Wopat (the better looking Duke boy). I might also have had a poster of Simon Le Bon. I surrounded myself with good looking men to keep me company through those pubescent years.

My daughters have cars instead. I can't even tell you what kind of cars are on the posters because I don't pay attention. I think one is orange and the other is red and I now have exhausted my knowledge of the automobile world.

Who are they and where did they come from?

That's a question I ask myself quite a bit. When we live as a family, it seems like we should know each other intuitively. I feel like I should understand these people in my home who are flesh of my flesh, but I don't. They are a mystery and that is truly the delight of being family.

One of the gifts of sabbatical was getting to know my family. We had to make conversation, harness our different gifts to meet challenges, and live together all the time without hanging each other over the balcony. We learned about our different senses of humor and our anger buttons. We learned to ask questions and we learned to depend on each other.


So now the big thing is figuring out how to keep that up when we are going in nine million different directions. It is easier to make assumptions about who we all are than it is to take the time to ask. I catch myself doing that and then feeling so disconnected and slightly irritated when they surprise me by not being me.

Luckily, they have those stupid car posters. Those call me back to remembering they are not me. I need to know them as Hannah, Sophie and Elijah. I need to know Kirt in all his mystery.

I have to keep reminding myself of the tools that help us keep connecting.

We have a million question cards at our dining room table and we ask random things over dinner. "What is a sure sign that someone is weird?" "What is one thing you were terribly wrong about?" "When are you the most clumsy?" I'm already feeling a little guilty for when boyfriends and such get introduced to the family.

We head out on trails and to the cabins regularly. There is something wonderful about walking together that allows you to know each other again.

We cuddle on the couch (yes, all five of us and sometimes the dog) and watch a movie together. We play games and sometimes we have food fights.

I'm tempted to sneak in their room so I can report what kind of cars they are, but I'm okay leaving it a mystery.

The Incredible Hulk

Don't tell anybody, but I have a thing for the superhero genre. I'm not dorky enough to be a Trekkie, but I am a sucker for the Incredible Hulk, the Wonder Twins, and Aquaman.

My brother and I used to watch The Incredible Hulk religiously. Our favorite line in the world was, "Don't make me angry, you wouldn't like me when I am angry." And you probably wouldn't have liked either of us when we were angry. I apologize to my dear brother for all the times that I told him I hated him, wished he was dead or convinced him he had a different dad. We said wicked mean things to each other. At least we did until my grandma paid us to be quiet.

It is good to be aware of what we do with our anger. I've thrown very unattractive temper tantrums. They are rare and normally related to ping pong. I do yell when I am still in "fun mad" stage. No one is listening to me so I will raise the volume because obviously folks are struggling with their hearing.

I don't get truly angry often, but when I do I tend to cry. It's a weird thing that some of my women friends have commented on in their own lives. Tears may appear manipulative or a conversation stopper, but for me they are a release of frustration and anger. I might also need to confess that I was the only person in the room who cried when the Incredible Hulk died so my tears release lots of things.

Or I walk. If someone makes me angry and I'm not sure if it is truly his/her fault as much as it is my response to a difference or something I didn't want to hear, then I walk. I take a break, write about it, and that helps me figure out what is making me so emotionally responsive. Does something need to change? Or do I need a nap?

Then I confront myself or the person who is making me feel so responsive. Sometimes anger makes me aware of the junk I need to deal with and I have to apologize to whomever I snipped at. Sometimes anger makes me realize that I have been hurt and I need to confront the one who hurt me with that. I've learned not to confront with phrases like "I hate you" and such, but to name what hurt out loud to that person. No silent treatment. No guessing games. No stomping off with my toys.

We cannot experience the gift of confession and forgiveness if we are not honest about anger and hurt. We will inevitably hurt and let each other down when we are in relationship. Conflict is not to be avoided, but it is an opportunity to become closer to each other by confronting the things that hurt and separate us.

Anger is not a bad thing, unless you do turn into a green monster and start ripping your clothes off. Then we have issues.