Complainers Anonymous

Achy and tired, wanting to sleep so much longer, I took pen to paper anyway this morning and began with "Achy, tired, want to sleep. " I then began to muse about why I felt so tired. My diet has been lousy lately, comprised mostly of crunchy, salty, cheesy things - my go-to now instead of sugar.

Or perhaps the culprit is a thousand accumulated worries. Children in far-off places both geographically and situationally. Places where they ALONE hash it out, choose good or ill, draw close to God or not, are happy, content, loved, fulfilled, or are insecure, lonely, anxious, suffering.

Then I wrote, "And what of today? What about me? The day is here, my schedule in place. Forty bright faces will greet me and I'll either fulfill their trust by giving 100% or go through the motions. May it not be the latter.

And please help me not to succumb to complaining, to accept the schools' requirements (however ridiculous and counterproductive) as from Your hand - "tests to pass", to be done without murmering or complaining."

That prayer led me to an insight, which is the reason I share this today.

Complainers aren't necessarily complainers at heart.  I have tended to think they are, relegating them to that category in much the same way I peg people as optimists or pessimists. (Notice I say, "they" - not identifying myself with either complainers or pessimists, although lately I've been guilty of complaining.)

But complainers have legitimate things to complain ABOUT. Things their trained eye is smart enough to figure out are not being done right. It's not just that they are miserable Eeyore sorts; they grumble and murmur because something hurts, something is wrong, unfair, lost or missing, broken, gone.

And yet, we're told not to complain. Moses' complainers in that desert were severely judged for doing so, although clearly one could say they were only pointing out the facts as they saw them. There WASN'T any water. They HAD been eating the same thing for a long time. Pharoah's army WAS pursuing them.

So what was the problem for them? What am I neglecting to do when I complain? I think it's this: I complain when I focus in on the irritant and fail to gaze elsewhere. I forget to look at points past, points future, on things unseen, putting myself at the mercy of my own immediate circumstances, cauterizing my ability to endure, to wait, to hope. "Stuck in a moment" to borrow a phrase from U2.

I need a bigger view:  the hopeful one, the trusting one, the "set on a wide place" one, that knows that whatever happens, whatever IS happening, all is well. All is well. All is well.

And Then There Were None - Our Empty Nest

There was a time when we made sure they were never too cold or too hot, swaddling them in blankets, putting them in a cold bath to take a fever down. More than anything, we wanted them comfortable and happy, clean and dry with their bellies full. Stimulated, free to grow and fail but still safe, protected. We wanted them to believe that the world is a good place to be, that they were loved, loved supremely.

And this was something we could do. It really wasn't that difficult. In fact, the tending to their needs was its own reward. Success was tangible, fairly immediate. They burped. They smiled.  They gained weight, crawled, walked, talked. They loved us like mad. No, the job was never done. It could be boring and tiring, but the goals and the outcomes were mostly in our hands. At first.

Then they grew up and moved away. They still needed to eat, take their medicine, get their rest, have their minds stimulated, feel loved, behave properly, do all the things that make for health and wholeness. But it was no longer our job; it was not really any of our business. And we could no longer "make it all better."

But I can't stop wanting to. I can't stop my mind from thinking about them - worrying, wondering, guessing, forecasting. As parents, our job is over, but our hearts don't know it.

I don't think they ever will.

That Foot-Washing Scene

 Think about a man on death row with an hour left before his execution.  Or King Louis XIV awaiting the guillotine. He paces, he moans, he prays, he's totally quiet; his heart must feel as if it would burst. He's terrified.

Then, picture the room where Jesus met with his friends for that last time.  Jesus knows what's coming, the men do not. They have won the lottery, are dividing the spoils. They're IN. The whole city has welcomed them; they're famous, about to have a major part in the long-awaited revolution. Two brothers fight over who should get the best assignment.

Jesus tells them they've got it all wrong, but they don't understand.

Do his hands shake as he breaks the bread, pours the wine? Does he see his own blood in that glass? Is he white-cold with fear? Doesn't he want to scream to his friends to listen to him? How can he even speak?

He does speak. He tells them they will rule some day. He talks about betrayal, about safety. Then he does something very strange.

Without speaking, he gets a bowl and a towel, removes his coat, and gets on his knees before one of them. He removes a sandal; with one hand he dips the towel into water, with the other he cradles the mud-encrusted foot. He washes feet. Twenty-four of them.

 Breathe in the smells of men and dust and wine and roasted lamb. Feel the humidity, the warmth of friends who love each other deeply. See the men's confusion when Jesus says that one will betray, another will deny, all will be scattered. A night of victory and celebration, anticipation of glory turned so solemn, dreadful. And now this outrageous act.

What was he doing?  Meeting a need? Not really. They could have washed their own feet. Something symbolic? Not merely. (Surely he didn't do this so future believers would have foot-washing ceremonies.) I don't claim to know what he was really doing here. I'm trying to understand, and so I welcome any insights. But here's what I hear Jesus saying and doing:

 You've been vying for position, for advantage. I'm telling you that life with me doesn't work that way. Here's the kind of person I want you to be.

 Then he showed them what he wanted by performing a lowly job. He placed himself beneath their gaze, not saying a word. With only hours left to live, with his heart no doubt pounding, he took feet into his hands and washed them with water, dried them with a towel.

 And I chafe, balk, and even refuse to wipe off the countertop after someone else.

The Simple Pleasures

 He holds his hand up, fingers curled towards him like a little cup and slowly raises his index finger like a shoot straightening to the sun, then lowers it down just as carefully. The other fingers follow along and his eyes take that in as well as the up and down movement. Over and over, he watches his own body respond to his own will. No stargazer is any more intrigued than this six-month old discovering his world.

The little sweet rice puffs are there for the taking. Both hands curled down attack the table, all the fingers on each hand contract quickly to try to grasp the small puff. He can't yet use just the thumb and index finger, so the puff ends up in the middle of his palm. It sticks and is hidden from sight, but he seems to know it's there, but not how to turn his hand to look for it. Fist to mouth, but no treat.

He tries again. And again. And again. Daintily, purposefully, but to no avail.

Finally, his grandmother has pity and picks up a piece, holding it close to his fist, which is still repeating the fruitless movements. He knows this is different; he can see the rice puff, so instead of bringing the fist up to his mouth, he dives headfirst and "chomps" on his fist, victory at last.

Here he is with his aunt, reaching for popcorn.

I Love The Way It Sounds

My mother's high school reunion is tomorrow, and she said this:

"They've opened it up to graduating classes from 1945-1950 because they couldn't get enough people who weren't dead."

Classic

Conversation between my mother and her lifelong friend:

Ann:  It's your birthday, Joanne, so I want to do something. You see, I've got this Backyard Burger coupon and it's buy one, get the other half off.

My mother:  That sounds wonderful. I love Backyard Burger.

Ann:  There's just one problem. I'm just not sure how it's going to work out.

My mother:  What's that, Ann?

Ann:  Well, it's like this. It's buy one, get one half off, but the thing is, I know what I like on my hamburger, but I don't know what you like, and I don't think this will work out. You see, I like mine with pickle, lettuce, mustard and onion, and I know you like something different.  I really wanted to do something for your birthday, but I just don't know how it will work out with me liking my hamburger one way and you like yours another way.

My mother:  I'll tell you what Ann. You order you hamburger the way you like it, and I'll just order mine the same way.

Ann:  But this was for your birthday, Joanne. Are you sure that will be alright?

The Sailing Life

 Pat has always wanted to sail - a book on sailing has graced his nightstand as much as any other book, and after 30+ years of waiting, last spring we purchased a 1970ish sailboat, (the O'Day Daysailer for those who might know or care.) Emily the Craigslist Queen found this boat, and it was perfect for us. Small enough to learn with, big enough to keep it from being a solitary activity.

Sailing enthusiasts will tell you, "There's nothing like it." It's true. To experience movement across water without the sound of a motor or the sweat of rowing is sublime. To know that with a watchful eye on the wind, the ropes and the tiller in hand, you can position your boat to make use of nature's gift is magical.

In addition to the wonderful way it feels to sail, Pat and I are enjoying seeing why our language is filled with so many sailing metaphors.  Almost each time we go out, we learn something new about life from sailing.

For the past few weeks, I've neglected my morning time with God. I simply have wanted the extra minutes of sleep. Nothing in life has been too pressing, spring is in the air, the school year is winding down, so I've been slacking off.

In our sailboat, there is a moveable keel called the centerboard. It's a narrow, long piece of wood underneath the boat that provides extra stability. We lower the center board almost immediately after launching and leave it down until we're ready to get out of the water. Yesterday Pat was "running", that means sailing with the wind at his back, so he pulled the centerboard up to reduce the drag.

He then tried to turn the boat with the wind coming across the side of the boat, but he forgot to lower the centerboard. Consequently, the boat started sliding sideways and he lost some control. The instant he lowered the centerboard, the boat stablized and he was able to go where he intended.

My time in the morning where I read the Bible, journal and pray is my centerboard. These "disciplines" are foundational and essential to my life being on course. Without them, I am adrift, without a destination. I need the stability, the "centering" that these disciplines afford.