The Bathroom

It's the great equalizer. Ever notice that? That we all go in, cram ourselves into this tiny little box, and, to some extent, have private time with our private parts. Odd, yes? What will people say of this custom in a thousand years? That people who don't even know each other's names, will never ask and will never see them again, share a little room, with only a pit (and where does that go?) covered in this mysterious blue cleaner, a sink fit for a squirrel and a mirror that only children would use because they don't know better. I mean, really. Does anyone look rested and relaxed and happy in that mirror? The answer is no. You always look terrible. Haggard, with static-y hair and runny mascara (though you'd just fixed that river of black two minutes ago).

And you manage to free yourself from this little box you electively entered, and then you have to excuse yourself past five people too big to be standing in the aisle and graze your private parts (again mentioned) against their legs or stomachs or (sorry) private parts. Why is this? Why do we enter into this game?

Ellie, earning her keep.

Men with starched shirts, women with knitting needles. Boys growing silver, pulsating earbuds out of their heads and little girls with light-up shoes. They all ache to get into that little box, invade all kinds of personal space getting to it and away from and then contemplate, after enough V8, Diet Coke or apple juice to DO IT AGAIN.

In case of a water landing, Ellie is prepared.

The airplane's bathroom. We are reduced to our faculties and our most humble of needs when using this ridiculous contraption. And then using it with a toddler. I will never mention how much entertainment we can generate in a tiny little box with a sink, pop down counter and soap.

Fever Breaks

I wrote to a priest friend of mine the other day, needing some help and guidance and counseling. You know when you just need an impartial ear, someone who is faith filled and kind and also wise and sturdy? I wrote to him in a frenzy of emotions, my voice crackling hot with anger and confusion and hurt.

And then a few days later, when his response came, welcoming a time to meet and talk and pray, I felt foolish! "Oh, man. That was dumb. I've worked it out (not really) and gotten over the adrenaline rush (again, not exactly). I can do this on my own, and now, because of my big, helpless mouth, someone knows I was crumbling. Great."

It had all passed and I was no longer hot (just warm) with confusion and emotion. And I felt like the morning sunshine and fresh air had eased my temporary state of madness. It reminded me of babies and their fevers. They are so hot--even to the touch!--and sometime in the night, with a little deep breathing and cool air, their fever breaks. In the morning, they are happy, maybe a little frayed at the edges, but over the maddening and detrimental fever. It is (almost) like it never was. You see some reminders--the damp jammies, the tired eyes, the parched mouth, but, your baby is cool again and so, so much better.

If I could keep in mind that the fever will break, the pulsating red river of anxiety and anger will subside and its tide will pull back out--I'd be calmer. Ha! No kidding, Katie. We are beautifully and wonderfully made, yes! I know! But, heavens. I could do without the roller coaster beating of my heart.

Playing the Game

Responsibility is a crazy thing. It gives you such freedoms and opportunities, but the price is very high. Responsibility is a liberator. If you're responsible for yourself, you have all the power and potential you'll ever need--right inside your hands. Right inside your mind. Right there! You are responsible for your homework, then your gas money, your rent, then your choices and behaviors. We have all kinds of mechanisms that remind of us this freedom. Jail, to start. Spouse. Fines. Children. Rejection. Self-doubt. By being truly responsible, yes, you get to take the credit for your work, but you also bear the load of the consequences.

I remember the first time I appreciated the grave reality of responsibility. I was a little girl, accustomed to directing and bossing and controlling my little brother. To do anything. And he would. Then one evening, I was falling asleep, tucked in, warm and perfectly still. And terribly uncomfortable. I had to go to the bathroom. Really badly. Right now. All of a sudden. And I sucked in air to scream out to David, "Please! Please! Hurry and go to the bathroom for me!" And I realized. Oh no. I'd have to do it myself. For the rest of my life. He couldn't do it for me. No one could. I would have to take time out of my day and  my thoughts and my momentum and go to the bathroom. Everyday, multiple times a day. No one would ever do it for me, no matter how nicely I asked. It was all on my shoulders forever. What a responsibility!

A friend of mine wants to lose weight this 2012. She said to me this morning, "You know. No one can do this but me. No one is to blame but me. And no one can change this but me." That's a great, empowering feeling! I can do it! But, the flip side is, the cost is, no one else can do it, either. It's how I feel about making friends. And keeping them. Do I think they'll land on my doorstep, straight out of a pretty hot air balloon, with intimate knowledge of me and so happy to be my life long confidantes? I much prefer being home with my family and reading a book or watching football, but that is not going to get me any friends, just like eating nachos won't take inches off my waist. Doesn't work, I've tried.

Without the responsibility, though, (I try to teach my boys) that we'd then have no control at all. If it wasn't your "fault" you failed the test, if it was the teacher's or the classroom's or the friend next to you or your dog or the weather or the whatEVER, then how will you guarantee you won't fail it again? How will you learn from this and adjust your pattern? If everything always happens to you, you must suffer a terrible feeling all the time! That sounds awful to me, to really believe my life is up to others' whims and influences on it than my own fallible mind and self.  Isn't it better to be the keeper of that ability (as broken and imperfect and short it may be) than to be the perpetual victim of life's circumstances?

"I am working on a project that needs some tweaking." No one can do it but me. I hope to feel a sense of pride and accomplishment when I finish. There's nothing worse than the feeling of chucking that horseshoe towards the pin and hearing it thud into the grass, feet and angles away from the target staring you in the face. That is not the feeling I'm aiming for, but at least I'm the one aiming.

Litany of Humility

There is a song by Danielle Rose I listened to this morning called the Litany of Humility. It's a beautiful, gentle reminder of what tempts us and how much we need the grace of Jesus to deliver and protect us. These passions are so real and so visceral. They make themselves attractive and interesting, so intriguing and "true." It is a constant battle, one that I must struggle against and stay ever vigilant for. These desires invade our personal space and demand, like a forgotten friend or irritated parent, to be heard and tended to. They are so compelling! Her prayer goes like this:

From the desire of being esteemed,
From the desire of being loved,
From the desire of being extolled,
From the desire of being honored,
From the desire of being praised,
From the desire of being preferred,
From the desire of being approved,
From the desire of being consulted,

Deliver me, oh deliver me Jesus
Deliver me, oh deliver me Jesus, Jesus, Jesus

From the fear of being humiliated,
From the fear of being despised,
From the fear of suffering rebukes,
From the fear of being calumniated,
From the fear of being forgotten,
From the fear of being wronged,
From the fear of being ridiculed,
From the fear of being suspected,

Deliver me, oh deliver me Jesus
Deliver me, oh deliver me Jesus, Jesus, Jesus
Deliver me Jesus
Deliver me Jesus

That others be loved more than I,
Others esteemed more than I,
That others increase and I decrease, in the world's eyes,
That others be chosen and I set aside,
Others praised and I unnoticed,
Others be preferred in everything,
That others become holier than I,
Provided that I may become as holy as I should,

O Jesus, grant me the grace
Oh grant me the grace to desire it.
O Jesus, grant me the grace
Oh grant me the grace to desire it
To desire it
Grant me the grace to desire it.
Meek and humble of heart, Jesus
Meek and humble of heart, heal us
Meek and humble of heart, Jesus

http://www.lyricshall.com/lyrics/Danielle+Rose/Litany+Of+Humility/

I mean, let's be honest. Who wants to be forgotten?? Isn't that what our tombstones are all about? Who wants to be humiliated? Humiliated?! It's a terrible, degrading, most humbling feeling. We can all recount, upon immediate demand, the times in our lives we've felt humiliation. I never want to repeat those moments (A 3 minute experience in 5th grade comes to mind. Three minutes of my life and I will never forget the pain.). What grace and strength and peace we need to truly desire holiness, to truly accept that others are esteemed and we are not, that others are chosen and we are not, that others are preferred or blessed or counted lucky and we are not.

"Believe in miracles."