Rubble Is The Ground...

I've been reading Anne Lamott's newest book of essays, Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith. Though not for the faint-hearted or the conservative-hearted - let's just say that Ms. Lamott is not on the pep squad for the Bush administration - I've enjoyed the read. She's a broken women with a messy life who finds an honest hope in Jesus but perhaps not the sort of hope that many evangelicals expect from their fellow believers. I think her brokenness, her messiness, her clinging, and her perseverence should cause us to pay attention because I think we all need to be reminded to be broken, messy, clinging, and to keep at it becasue I think it's easy to forget that these things are not just ok, but good.

Anyway, I wanted to share one quote that I came across because I thought it was well put. So without further ado...

I have survived so much loss, as all of us have by our forties-my parents, dear friends, my pets. Rubble is the ground on which our deepest friendships are built. If you haven't already, you will loose someone you can't live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and you will never completely get over the loss of a deeply beloved person. But this is also good news. The person lives forever, in your broken heart that doesn't seal back up. And you come through, and you learn to dance with the banged-up heart. You dance to the absurdities of life; you dance to the minuet of old friendships. [Plan B, 147]

Some of Life's Sweetness

Last night, our church moved into its new location since we had very much outgrown the building we had been using. Because my life spirals down its personal vortex, we are now renting space from the church my family attended through most of my childhood, only the church had since relocated and renamed. It was kind of strange to see the old paraphernalia from my memories in this new crisp room: the wooden cross that used to hang in the baptismal, the flags that we carried in each day during vacation bible school, the banners of a dove and a burning bush that somebody made for some reason that I can’t remember.

I wasn’t expecting to see anyone I knew since we didn’t usually cross paths with the church members at the space we had been rented, so when I met a lady outside the office, I just introduced myself by saying, “I don’t think I’ve met you before.”

“I don’t think I’ve met you either,” she responded. “I’m Faye.”

Something familiar clicked but I didn’t understand. I pointed to my chest and said softly, “I’m Jamie. I know you.”

Then she hugged me joyously and cupped my face in both her hands and smiled at me in at there-you-are-Peter sort of way. Once she found the child in the adult’s face, she exclaimed “I loved this girl!”

I’ve never been greeted like that before and I was genuinely touched. She was just there in case our childcare workers needed anything. That was actually pretty much all we said since I had to run back to the stage to finish setting up music. I was moved and I wanted to share.

I'm Sure You Must Be Weary, Dear

This is a speech I received from a three-year-old last night. I usually end up spending the night when I baby-sit him, especially if his folks are coming home late, since I live pretty far away.

So where are you going to be in the morning, Jamie? Because, see, we have four beds and one of them is just for Guests and it's in Grandmamma's Room, but grandmomma's not here right now so you can have that one, ok? It's just down the hall; you just need to go straight ahead. It's ok, you won't get lost - just remember, go straight ahead.

And don't worry, Jamie, we'll have a little bit of time to play in the morning before you have to go home. It will be all right. We'll eat breakfast and we'll play, ok?

Everyday Low Prices

Because of copyrights, I can't really post the image, however, you guys should check out this Sunday's Boondock comic strip. It's truly a full color affair,

So He Said To His Mother, “I Am Running Away”

I met a four-year-old at the grocery story yesterday. Her mom and I were both looking at teas and the kid looked a little bored. I noticed she was wearing a pretty pink scarf so I looked up and said, “Hey! That’s a beautiful scarf you’re wearing.”

“Thank you,” she responded.

“Did someone make it for you?” I asked

“No, my mommy gave it to me!” was the answer.

“Actually,” interrupted the mother, “I did make it for her.”

“It’s really great,” I replied. Then, turning to the girl, “You must be awful special for someone to make you such a great scarf!”

“I am special!” she exclaimed with all her heart. “Mommy says I am so special all the time!”

It’s amazing what little kids can get away with. This girl was not boasting; she was relaying facts to me: (1) that she knew she was something special and (2) that she knew this because her mother made sure she was told this all the time. If a twelve-year-old had said this, we would all jump to the conclusion that he or she was conceited – at least, those of us who grew up Southern would jump to this conclusion, though I seriously doubt we Southerns are alone in this prejudice.

It’s funny though. I think if we were to let ourselves be honest, we would all agree that we want what this girl has: to know without a shadow of a doubt that we are special, valued, and needed – AND we want to know this to such a degree that we would not be afraid to proclaim it to a stranger trying to pick out the right chamomile tea. It’s not that we want to be thought of as conceited, but we do want the confidence that conceited people seem to radiate.

Why don’t we know this? I believe that most of us know very few, if any, people we would consider invaluable, and useless clones. Actually, maybe we do, unfortunately, consider many people to be just this, but I wonder if we have actually taken the time to get to know them. See, a four-year-old child asks a lot from her parent(s): they must put her to bed on time, keep her safe from accidents, clean up spills when she tries to help, clean up vomit when she is sick, wake up at the crack of dawn because she is not tired anymore, etc. Also, a parent does not keep (or should not keep) a list of gains such as “I changed your diapers for over a year, now you must do all my laundry until you are 30.” What is it that makes us tell a child they are so special over and over again?

So, a four-year-old child could know indubitably that she is special and if everyone we encounter is valuable if we take the time to look for it. I ask again, why do we have such a hard time believing this of ourselves? Why is, nestled in our deepest fears, the terror that we don’t add up to much? Is it all the mistakes we have made along the way? Is it because we were not loved properly when we were children? Have we spent too many weeks under Murphy’s Law? Is it that someone has told us we were worthless and we believed them? Why is it that we will call everything and everyone under the sun worthy, but can’t believe it of ourselves?