April 28, 2005
Happy Secretary's Day
I am in so much trouble! No, not for blogging at work. Because my supervisors gave me a card and a check for $75 for Professionals Day (what used to be known as Secretary's Day). Argh! I prayed and prayed that they wouldn't get me flowers because I do *not* want to embrace my (highly temporary) identity as a secretary. Instead they gave me money, which is a whole lot more serious.
I wonder if it's a bribe to get me to stay. I'm only there as a Kelly girl, you know. No, I'm sure they did it out of the kindness of their hearts. But my leave-taking is immanent! How I am going to go now? I feel like Teri Garr in "Tootsie," who was totally willing to take Dustin Hoffman's chocolate covered cherries even as she left him.
Posted by Lisa at 06:36 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
April 27, 2005
On the fourteenth day...
As anyone (anyone? anyone out there?) knows who's been keeping up, I am currently a Kelly girl extraordinaire as I seek to get my so-called life together. Right now I'm a secretary at a respectable engineering firm. Below are some thoughts from a previous Kelly job, at a somewhat less respectable grocery warehouse. God works in amazing ways!
It is day fourteen of my job in the call center at Roundy’s, a Midwestern grocery warehouse. It is still morning, but it’s already been *that* kind of day, the kind where, if the phone rings one more time, I swear I’m going to hurl it against the wall. I close my eyes and shift in my chair. I sigh. Finally realizing that I can’t escape the telephone, I decide to head it off at the pass. I pick up the receiver, my reasoning being that if I’m already on the phone, it can’t ring. I call Jack at St. Anne’s Country Market. Maybe he’ll have his order ready.
“Hey,” I say when Jack picks up the phone.
I stop there, even though I know I’m supposed to do more. I’m supposed to identify myself in a bright, cheery voice and tell him why I’m calling. But instead, I pause, suddenly struck dumb.
And into the pause steps something—or someone—completely unexpected.
It is not a particularly good time in my life, in case you haven’t figured this out already. Out of desperation—certainly not out of choice—I have taken a job selling meat and deli products over the telephone. If you live in certain parts of the Midwest, it’s entirely possible that that cut of beef you picked up last night made it to your fridge because I sent it on its way to the corner store.
This achievement, however important a link in the food chain, is not doing it for me right now. I am depressed at being reduced to working in phone sales; doubtful that I’ll ever make a name for myself doing something more worthwhile; and completely frazzled by the constantly ringing telephone.
It’s no wonder that on day fourteen, I pause during my phone call to Jack.
“Hey,” I say to him. What else is there to say?
But Jack surprises me. “Lisa!” he cries. He sounds genuinely glad to hear from me. He goes on. “I know your voice now. You don’t even have to say it’s you!”
Jack’s own voice is full of delight, like a kid who’s just spotted his long-lost playmate across the park.
That’s when I realized that I *have* made a name for myself. Literally speaking, anyway. I’ve made a name for myself because there are meat cutters across the Midwest who know me. They know who I am and why I’ve called. They know the distinct timbre of my voice, enough to recognize me before I even say my name. And they are gladdened by it.
Let me tell you, it was a healing moment when Jack called. It was a moment that made me think twice about the meaning of the ringing telephone.
I thought of what I long for most in this life, which is to be recognized, known and cherished. And I looked down at my call list and saw the names of over thirty people that know me. People that were once strangers but that aren't any longer. People whose voices light up when they hear my voice on the other end of the line.
I thought about voices and how intimate they are. Even more so than our names, voices are part of our created beings--like the hairs on our head, each one of which God has personally counted. To know someone’s voice is to know something not insubstantial about them. By the end of my time at Roundy’s, I think that my customers and I knew each other’s voices nearly as well as the voices of our family, friends, and lovers.
I looked at the telephone again and thought about the notion of calling, but this time in terms of calling forth, as in creation. Here it was, day fourteen in the bustling world of Roundy’s warehouse, and God was still busy creating. In Michelangelo’s fresco of the "Creation of Eve" on the Sistine Chapel ceiling, God calls forth Eve from the body of Adam. Eve emerges as if from slumber, her whole body leaning towards her maker.
On the fourteenth day, Jack the meat cutter picked up his end of the phone and called me out of my discouragement and despair. It was, in many ways, like hearing the voice of God.
“Lisa!” he cried, his voice full of delight.
And what he said in those two syllables was, I know your voice. I have called you by name. I tell you the truth, when you hear it from the least of these, you hear it from me.
Posted by Lisa at 04:10 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
April 26, 2005
The Dust Chronicles
The day of my eerie encounter with the Water Seller-cum-Jesus, I was bored out of my mind and started reading everything on or in the vicinity of my desk. After finishing the telephone book (it's a pretty small town), I hit upon an orange folder that turned out to be the janitorial log for our office--where our office manager and janitorial team leave messages for each other, since the janitors come after hours. The official title is, "Janitorial Comment Book."
The first comment my eyes fell upon was this, from our office manager: "Please take more care when dusting. There was a coffee spill spot on the conference room table last week and it's still there today." I know that cleanliness is next to Godliness and all that, but, especially after the visit from the Water Seller, it just seemed petty and absurd.
The response from the janitorial team was a lesson in humility. "I apologize for missing the spill. Thanks." Thank you for pointing out my error, the janitor said. How many people ever say that? In fact, the janitorial responses in the log are always effusive in their thanks. "Thanks for letting us know we were missing this! We'll take care of it!!" Complete with multiple exclamation points.
I pity the janitors who come here, because our office manager notices dirt on the molecular level. For example:
"Could you please make sure you vacuum good in the corners this weekend? We are noticing an accumulation of dirt right up along the baseboards. Thanks."
It's hard for me to imagine how anyone would notice dirt right up along the baseboards unless that person were crawling around them on her hands and knees. Which is entirely possible, I guess. I'm thankful that this woman is not my mother.
The following comment someone is going to have to explain to me:
"Skipper [owner of company: not his real name] noticed that the cabinets and walls in the men's bathroom in the back are not being wiped down from urine splatter. Could you please try to do that every week?"
OK, I have a husband, and he's a typical male, and never once have I had to wipe urine splatter off the walls in our bathroom. What exactly is going on back there? Is there a cache of four-year-olds that I don't know about? Can anyone out there explain this to me?
And the response from the janitorial team, so typical in its humility:
"Cleaned the urine splatter. I believe that it's the cleaner I use on the toilet that splatters [that may go some way towards explaining the conundrum]. I'll keep a better watch on it."
I thought I was pretty much the lowest of the low here at work. But there is someone whose job it is to check the bathroom for urine splatter. How's that for a reality check.
Posted by Lisa at 11:23 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
The Water Seller
OK, I am now officially in big trouble if anyone sees me, because I'm blogging at work. It's a slow, slow day here in Kelly girl-land. Even as I type this, my hand is poised to close this window the second someone rounds the corner to my work area.
The other week at work, the guy who sells (or just brings) us our big bottled water jugs came. My desk faces the entrance but has one of those high counters in front of it, so that if I'm not craning upwards, I can't see who's coming in. I heard the door and looked up to see the water guy struggling with one water jug perched on his shoulder and one in his hand. It wasn't easy for him to open the front door to our office. He came in, took the full jugs around the corner and retrieved the empty ones.
On his second trip in, a client approaching the office opened the door for the water seller. The water seller thanked him. "Every bit helps," he said on his way around the corner. On his way back outside with the empty jugs, he stopped and said to me, "You know, at this one place I go, the guy in front never gets the door for me. He just sits there and makes me walk all the way around to the side entrance." He went back out to his truck for yet more jugs.
There was something about this guy that got to me. Part of it was his open, easy smile. Also his weather-beaten face and lank blond hair. Mostly it was his frank admission of needing help. You could argue that it's his job to carry in the water jugs. It's not my job. But why couldn't I help him anyway? Why was I content to just sit and watch him struggle until he said something? I, who am so sensitive to being the lowest woman on the totem pole in this office. Here was one lower than I, and I just let him hang.
You can bet that when I saw him coming in for the third time, I fell all over myself running get the door for him.
It was one of those moments when I thought, you know, this guy really could be Jesus. The roughened face, the longish hair, the parable of asking for help. And the fact that he was bringing us water. (The water of life?) It all just came together. And I tremble to think how close I came to letting him hang out to dry.
Posted by Lisa at 10:23 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
April 25, 2005
Lots o' Liturgy: Part II
Yesterday I bemoaned my powerpointy church's lack of liturgy and lack of interest in its denominational heritage (CRC). Why then, you may ask, do I go there? The short and the long answer is, because God led me there. He seems to genuinely want me there. And the fact is, I do experience God in our worship services, even though I detest so many things about them. I wrote that God is present in the beauty and truth of the liturgy. Yes; but he is also present in the praises of his people. And that's why I'm there. I see him in the people that have gathered there. I see him in loud-mouthed M. and story-telling V. In exuberant S. and wise-cracking B. In a pastor who hasn't gotten the memo that pastors are supposed to act decorously. And in a whole gaggle of kids that are just too unbelievably precious; I have adopted them, since I have no children of my own.
Why couldn't these people to whom God has drawn me like a magnet have had better taste in worship? Would it have been so hard to provide me with good people AND good music? Argh! Clearly, I have something to learn here. It may well have to do with my snippety views. But for now, I choose the body of Christ. That's going to have to be my truth and my liturgy as far as church services go. Until I hear otherwise. In the meantime, anyone up for reciting a few creeds?
Posted by Lisa at 06:09 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
April 24, 2005
Lots o' Liturgy
This morning, I got my needed dose of liturgy when I went to a Lutheran church for the baptism of a friend's son. My own church is distinctly anti-liturgical. I think that the only parts to our services are "song" and "message," with maybe a prayer or two thrown in. It also has a rock band. It is, as my husband affectionately calls it, the Church of Powerpoint.
While I love my church, I also find that I desperately need a dose of good ole' liturgy sometimes. I need the passing of the peace. Even kids passed the peace at the church we visited today. Our two-year old friend, Micah, actually took our hand and said, "Peace." I need to sing meditative songs set to the haunting music of Vaughan Williams. I need to see the host lifted high. I need to confess my sins. Believe it or not, confession is not something we do at my home church. I was near tears at several points in the Lutheran service this morning, and while I know that faith is not about weepy emotion, I also believe that the beauty of the Lutheran liturgy opened me up to experiencing God.
This is something that I wish my home church could understand-- that God is present in beauty; that tender and reflective moments are as needed as really loud praise songs; that there is something powerful in reciting a creed; in other words, that throwing out all elements of the liturgy is throwing out the baby with the bathwater. If you throw out all of the liturgy, you throw out confession, statements of belief, prayers, and even communion, which we celebrate infrequently. It bothers me that someone stepping into our church on Sunday morning would not know who we are or what we believe, because we are so intent on downplaying our denomination (CRC) and rejecting anything that smacks of "church."
Our church bills itself as a "church for people who don't do church." In other words, it's mostly for the unchurched or for people who have been hurt by church in the past. I'll admit that I don't entirely understand the reasoning that says that an impoverished service would help those who have been hurt by the church. When I've been hurt by the church, I've been hurt by its people. But others have apparently been hurt by legalism, a good-on-the-outside but rotten-or-at-least-indifferent-on-the-inside mindset that manifests itself in, among other things, a works-based church service (you *have* to recite this creed; you *have* to dress up, etc.). So we do away with all the "have to's." (The irony, of course, is that we acquire a whole new set of "have to's:" we have to do praise songs only, we have to do away with anything churchy.)
One thing I know I have to do is to honor the hurt that leads to this attitude. "Therefore, if what I eat causes my brother to fall into sin, I will never eat meat again, so that I will not cause him to fall" (I Corinthians 7:25). Should we change the way we worship so that hurt brothers and sisters will not fall? At the very least, I can feel more tender towards them, instead of angry that they've (indirectly) taken away the liturgy.
I can't help thinking, however, that the anti-liturgical mindset may itself be (unintentionally) hurting people by eliminating important and powerful elements of worship--confession, creeds--and by hiding denomination and beliefs. "You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free," Jesus said. I'm a little concerned that at my church, we're afraid of scaring people off with the truth. I think that hurt people need the truth. Not works, but the truth. And frankly, I'd rather scare a few people off with the truth than have a bunch of wishy-washy people in my church. In the end, though, I don't think we'd scare them off. Most people are desperate for something real, something solid and true. Let's give them something. Let's really give it to them. Let's realize that we have something wonderful to give.
My church is Christian Reformed; it's my opinion that week after week, we should be showering people with the best message that came out of the Reformation: God's grace. For hurt people, for unchurched people, for legalistic people, what better message could there be than this? "We can do nothing; we're screwed. But wait, God has done everything. He's fixed everything, and you don't have to do and do and do anymore." O church of mine, by incorporating just a little of your heritage, just a little of the liturgy that sustained your fathers and mothers, you wouldn't be "churchy" or overbearing. You'd be the aroma of God's grace to suffering people. Wouldn't that be far better than being "the church for people who don't do church?"
I'd better stop before I rip my heart out. Maybe it's enough that for today, I experienced God in the liturgy at the church that I visited. I got my fix, and I can be thankful for that. Next week I'll be back at my home church singing praise songs. I'll probably experience God there, too. I usually do. Although in my heart of hearts, I'll be yearning for something quieter and more reflective, something grace-ful, something more "ancient of days." It fills me more.
Posted by Lisa at 09:26 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
April 22, 2005
The Venerable Bede--now at a store near you
So I was doing the crossword puzzle at work today, and one of the clues was, "choice of soup." It had a lot of letters, and when I had a few strategic ones filled in--the "v," a few "e"'s, maybe the "ble"-- I really thought the answer was "Venerable Bede." You know, the church father from the 7th/8th century. I don't know how I could have thought that, it's just what sprang to mind given the letters I had. It turns out that the correct answer was "vegetable beef."
Should this bother me, that an obscure-ish church father would come to mind more readily than a popular kind of soup?
Posted by Lisa at 09:56 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
Four letter word for "I hate this job"
Every day at my (current and thankfully temporary) job as a Kelly girl secretary, I do the crossword puzzle at my desk. The other day, I was heartened when I did not immediately know the answer to one of the clues, which was "what secretaries do." Was it 'type'? 'File?' 'Sit around doing nothing for hours and then get ten extremely urgent tasks all at once?' (Wait, that has too many letters.)
Anyway, I'm taking it as a good sign that I did not know the answer. I think it means that I'm not, deep down inside or even more shallowly, a secretary. It is not my destiny. I'm bound for greater things. Hallelujah.
(I think the answer was 'file,' but I don't really remember.)
Posted by Lisa at 09:48 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
If Jesus were a woman...
He'd be a Kelly girl, working in an anal-retentive office where every task he's given to do is extremely urgent, where he actually has a higher degree than everyone there but no one knows it, where no one ever asks anything about him or his life, where no one sees the problem in asking him to stay late to do an extremely urgent task, even though he doesn't get paid for that since he's an hourly worker. Where people think he's just not really very bright, otherwise he wouldn't be a secretary, would he?
But, being Jesus, he'd do all this with a string of pearls around his neck and a towel around his waist; that is, unlike me, he'd do it in perfect servitude. Does he always have to ruin the curve?
Posted by Lisa at 09:38 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
April 19, 2005
Reading For My Life: The Redemptive Message of "Bel Canto"
Note: the following is a book review I wrote a couple years ago for my church newsletter. I think it bears repeating, not (just) because it's such a fabulous review, but because Ann Patchett's book is so wonderfully, fabulously redemptive. So, here goes.
Eight weeks after being released in paperback, Ann Patchett’s novel, "Bel Canto," jumped onto the New York Times best-seller list, where it remained for over sixteen weeks. The primary cause for its dramatic rise in popularity was, apparently, word of mouth. I myself came to read "Bel Canto" in just this way, when a friend recommended it to my book club. I got hold of a copy, read it, and quickly jumped on the "Bel Canto" bandwagon: it has become my personal campaign to get everyone to read this book.
Why are people telling each other about this novel? The short answer is, because it speaks to the deepest needs of every reader who picks it up. It is a story of the love and grace that bloom in the most unlikely of situations, a terrorist takeover in South America. Being overrun by terrorists may seem like one of your worst nightmares. But in his letter to the Romans, Paul tells us that we are all born as hostages. We are held captive to sin and death until the savior sets us free. I think this is why "Bel Canto" is on so many people’s lips: the whole world hungers for salvation, and Patchett spins a tale that carries distinct echoes of “the greatest story ever told.”
The seeds of redemption are planted early in "Bel Canto," and, appropriately for a work of literature, their nourishment takes the form of art. In fact, Patchett's book makes a compelling argument for the redemptive power of art—all kinds of art, certainly, but in this story particularly of music. The book opens seconds after Roxane Coss, a famous opera singer, has performed for the international guests of a birthday party at the Vice Presidential mansion. Her voice transfixes the audience, lingering in the air even as terrorists infiltrate the house and take the guests captive. The turning point in the ensuing ordeal comes some weeks later, when Roxane, now one of the hostages, begins to sing in captivity. The book’s title, “Bel Canto,” literally means “beautiful singing” and also refers to the rich and sensual vocal style achieved by the best Italian opera singers. Roxane’s voice is more than beautiful, however. It becomes an instrument of reconciliation, bringing together people who do not speak the same language, people of different nationality and class, and perhaps most importantly, the captives and those who hold them there. Their differences are not erased, but music provides a way for them to see one another’s humanity.
Perhaps Patchett intended her book to function like Roxane’s voice, as a way to bring reconciliation into readers’ lives. It certainly spoke to me on a very personal level. When I read "Bel Canto," I was in an exile of sorts. My husband and I were living in rural-ish Indiana, far (well, far enough) from our church home, our friends and support groups. I had recently quit my job and had no idea what the next semester, let alone the next day, held for me. In some ways, I felt like a hostage with a blindfold on. I needed a shot of redemption at about that time. My book club, consisting of friends and colleagues from the University community, was a step in the right direction. My friends in the group taught me to see literature in a new way. While before I read for pleasure, for plot, for the beauty of language (characteristics I still love), now I was reading for my life. The book that nearly saved my life was "Bel Canto." The members of our book club were not unanimous in their interpretation of this novel, although most of us liked it a great deal. Some of the interpretations surprised me, especially those that held that "Bel Canto" is about the disparities of race and class in South America, or about the Stockholm Syndrome, in which hostages bond to their captors as a survival mechanism. To me, the book was not about politics or human psychology. I thought it was about love.
One of the loveliest developments in "Bel Canto" is the way in which the hostages learn to put away the “worldly concerns” that had preoccupied them before their internment. In a way, they have no choice: for the four and a half months of their ordeal, they are confined to the Vice Presidential mansion with only each other for company. Held against their will, unsure of what the next day might bring, the hostages are stripped of everything that is unessential to the survival of their bodies and minds. As the unessential is pared away, hidden reserves of love and compassion float to the surface, like lily pads on a murky pond. This was an important lesson for me. For the first time in fourteen years, I could not rely on my familiar conception of myself as a university professor and scholar. I had that role down cold, but now it was gone. What I needed was to open myself to risk and above all to love—the love of friends, spouse, and the God who takes care of me whether I have a career or not. The surprising thing is that my lesson in love happened during my so-called captivity, as it did for Patchett's characters. Their literal internment became a metaphor for my own captivity and showed me that the struggle itself can be redemptive.
"Bel Canto" picks up emotional speed toward the end, as the hostages and terrorists increasingly open themselves to one another. This is what Ann Patchett does best—she puts her characters in unusual situations—forcing them together, almost—and lets them break free of their hard, outer shells. I read and re-read certain passages, certain that I was discovering myself in the characters’ thoughts and experiences. My favorite passage comes in the last fourteen pages of the book. It begins with Gen, a Japanese translator, reflecting on the changes captivity has wrought in him. Gen was a perennial student of languages, a man “born to learn.” However, “these last months had turned him around and now Gen saw there could be as much virtue in letting go of what you knew as there had ever been in gathering new information (p. 304).” As a perennial student myself, this twist was all but guaranteed to grab my attention. Like concerns offered up in a prayer, the passage goes on to detail all the worries and preconceptions the hostages and terrorists learn to release during the internment. “It was too much work to remember things you might not have again, and so one by one they opened their hands and let them go (p. 305).” I particularly like the image of opening the hands; to me, it is reminiscent of the celebrant’s gesture at communion or the worshipper’s hands raised in adoration.
Opening your hands and letting go allows a new creation to begin. One of the characters that speaks the most to this transformation is Ruben Iglesias, Vice President of the (un-named) country and owner of the estate in which the internment takes place. Ruben is a wealthy, ambitious and rather lustful man at the beginning of the story. At first, he tries to maintain some modicum of order during the ordeal, with the goal of protecting his valuable house and possessions. Surprisingly, these selfish efforts turn into a new vocation:
"With a dishtowel knotted around his waist, [Ruben] took on the qualities of a charming hotel concierge. He would ask, would you like some tea? He would ask, would it be too much of an imposition to vacuum beneath the chair in which you were sitting? Everyone was very fond of Ruben. Everyone had completely forgotten that he was the Vice President of the country" (p. 132).
Beneath his charm, Ruben lives up to his last name, “Iglesias,” the Spanish word for “church.” With his towel wrapped around his waist, he is the rich man who becomes a servant, the distinguished host who kneels to wash the feet of his humble guests. One of those he stoops to serve is a young terrorist boy, Ishmael. In perhaps the most tender scene in the novel, Ruben and Ishmael garden together, and Ruben dreams of adopting the boy. What a beautiful moment in these broken lives. Only later did I pick up on the rich allusions of this passage. This little story echoes that of the Biblical Ishmael, son of Abraham and Hagar, who is born an outcast yet who nevertheless receives God’s faithful provision (Gen. 16-25). Of course, it also reminds us of who we are, misguided and undeserving children miraculously given the status of sons and daughters. After identifying so strongly with the hostages, I was surprised to see myself in a little terrorist boy. The fact that we are able to care about and identify with the “bad guys” in "Bel Canto" speaks volumes about the kind of reconciliation that Christ’s love makes possible.
A few months later, in January, I read another recent novel, Alice Sebold’s "The Lovely Bones," which spent over thirty-five weeks on the New York Times best-seller list. It tells the story of a fourteen-year-old girl, Susie Salmon, who looks down from heaven and watches her family and friends cope with the aftermath of her rape and murder. Like Patchett's book, "The Lovely Bones" presents us with a situation that cries out for redemption. And many readers, including myself, have found in this story a memorable account of enormous hurt and healing. In the end, however, I was disappointed to find Sebold’s conception of grace so narrow. Towards the end of the book, Susie finally learns to let her family go on with their lives. Looking down on them from heaven, she says, “I began to see things in a way that let me hold the world without me in it” (p. 320). The problem is, no one is holding Susie or teaching her to see even greater vistas. Her healing—and that of her family—takes place largely by virtue of her own efforts. I want to introduce Susie, who even in death has to hold it all together, to the hostages in "Bel Canto," who learn to open their hands and let go. Ultimately, "Bel Canto" is a more fulfilling story because its characters are able to give and receive grace in their difficult situation. They don’t have to save themselves, and ultimately they realize that they cannot. Likewise, I don’t want to have to hold everything together, like Susie does. I want to learn to open my hands and give what I hold to God—and to let him hold me.
I don’t know whether or not you’d call the ending to "Bel Canto" a happy one; you’ll have to read it and decide for yourself. I do know that the story isn’t over for me. Redemption is a lifelong process, Paul tells us; we’re in it for the long haul. "Bel Canto" helped to reacquaint me with the journey, but it also raised troubling questions. How necessary is captivity to our redemptive journey? Do we have to struggle and suffer in order to shed what is unnecessary in our lives? I don’t know the answer to these questions. I do know that in my struggle and yours, the love of Christ Jesus will bring us the salvation we crave. One of Patchett's characters sums it up nicely: “At the moment one is sure that all is lost, look at what is gained! (p. 154)”
Posted by Lisa at 06:02 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Traveling Mercenaries
Last Saturday, my friend Anne and I went to the Paperback Place, a used book and book exchange store here in town. Anne wanted to get some Anne Lamott, since we're reading Lamott's newest title, "Plan B," in our book group next month.
So the woman who owns the store looks up Lamott on her computer to see what she has in stock. Her father, meanwhile, is sitting a few feet behind the counter on a stool. The woman pulls up Lamott on her screen. "Here it is," she says. The woman's father leans forward, squints, and helpfully interprets the title.
"Oh," he says. "'Traveling Mercenaries?'"
I nearly fell over laughing from my perch in the "romance" aisle. Lamott's book, of course, is called "Traveling Mercies." Mercies, my friend, mercies. Not mercenaries. Important difference, no? Or maybe not. Somehow I think that Lamott wouldn't entirely mind this alternate title. I can see it now:
"Traveling Mercenaries: Some Kick-Ass Soldiers of Faith."
I see a book in which Anne Lamott meets "Dogs of War." I envision, as the main premis, a band of hired thugs assigned to accompany each of us to our battlefield of faith. When we get out of hand, they'd nudge us with the butts of their guns and put their slimy faces up to ours.
"You! Drop and give me twenty Hail Marys! Yeah, I'm talkin' to you, maggot!"
"I wanna see some kick-butt acceptance of God's grace around here, and I wanna see it now! Capiche?" Nudge, nudge.
Ah, to be kicked into accepting mercy from the soldiers of God.
Posted by Lisa at 05:14 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
April 18, 2005
I breathe in, I breathe out...
If you've ever had a job, been a student or, heck, had a stint as a human being, you know the perils of well-meaning but maddeningly obnoxious questions about your career, your next move, your life. I myself have been through several phases of these questions, each more grueling than the last. In college, there was the ubiquitous, "So, what are your plans after you graduate?" When I was a Ph.D. student, I grooved to the oh-so-endearing, "When are you going to finish your dissertation?" (This question was asked over a period of eight years, repeating itself like a broken record you want to slam over the head of the next asker.) Having been married for over twelve years but remaining childless (by choice, more or less), I've also gotten the, "Aren't Lisa and E. *ever* going to have kids?"
Those questions are certainly fun, but the topper came after my...what shall I call it...quasi-breakdown, when I realized that I simply could not teach a roomful of beady-eyed undergraduates for another second and abruptly quit my career. (The smoke and embers from the crash and burn site could be seen over my house for weeks.) As I rested, recovered and slowly, slowly began to patch together some semblance of a life over the next few years, I began to dread the moment when a well-meaning acquaintance or family member looked me in the eye, paused, and said, "So...". I knew what was coming next. I knew it, I could see it, and yet it was as unpreventable and well-aimed as a search-and-destroy missile. "So...what have you been doing these days?", asked with a mixture of trepidation, curiosity and sometimes even disgust (if, for example, the asker happened to be my mother).
Unbelievably, I never had an answer to that question, even though I should have. I certainly had the time to come up with one. What was I *doing* all those hours I spent on the couch, gazing out the window like a prisoner? (Oops. There I am, asking myself the dreaded question.) Anyway, I should have made up an answer, the way we were taught to come up with a sixty-second description (the "elevator speech") of our dissertation topics in grad school. Instead, I hemmed and hawed, tried to change the subject, hoped the asker would die before I had to come up with an answer, etc.
Why couldn't anyone ever ask, "Who are you?" or "Why are you?" instead? Those are the questions I was actually wrestling with. I couldn't have given a rat's ass what I was or wasn't doing, but I was really interested in why the fuck I was put on this earth. There's nothing like crashing, burning and just utterly failing in general to take you to the core of things. There've been times (like now) when I've had to face the possibility that I'll never find meaningful work, let alone a "career," again. If I may never "do" anything worthwhile, I darned well better "be" someone worthwhile. At least inside. At least to me. But no. No one ever asked those questions. I seemed to be surrounded by the world's most productive people, spitting their productivity questions at me like that machine that blasts out tennis balls when you want to practice your backhand.
But now, thanks to one of those calendars with a noxiously cute quotation for every week of the year, I think I've found the answer. Listen and be soothed by the words of Emily Dickinson:
"To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else."
How perfectly wonderful! How absolutely true! I think that the next time some well-meaning person asks me what I've been doing with myself these days, I'll smile sweetly and just a little bit patronizingly, sigh, and say, "To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else." I'll pause for a moment, then finish with, "Don't you agree?"
I'll let you know how that little experiment goes. I've no doubt I'll have plenty of opportunity to practice it, since I'm still on that slow road to building what some people call a life. I have, as Anne Lamott puts it, "accidentally" become a Kelly Girl for a while. In other words, I still don't have a good answer to that "what've you been doing" question. In fact, perhaps the Dickinson quote would be a good way to account to my supervisor for the way I spend my time at work. (Hey, at least I'm not photocopying my butt or anything.)
Anyway, I think that the moral (or morale) here is this: Hey people, I'm not what I do (or conspiculously fail to do). I just am. I am. I am...a patch of sunshine in the winter woods. Upheld in the arms of the Father. A child of the light. I've decided that it's kind of good to be able to define yourself in terms of the one who was the first to declare, "I AM."
Posted by Lisa at 03:36 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack