deep thots...and Charlie Brown

Ever wondered just who, exactly, is living in your skin? God knows I do.
Seriously.
I ask him. A lot. The same question in a hundred different ways.
And he answers me. Not in one giant chunk of perfect self-awareness (which would undoubtedly be absolutely unbearable and would turn my brain to Spam), but with little flashes. And generally when I'm not all wrapped up in myself.
Funny how that works.

Sometimes, I am certain that God brings people into our lives to show us who we are--and just as often, who we're NOT.
Take yesterday, for example. Children's Sunday school. I serve as the coordinator for one of the services, meaning that I organize materials for teachers, collate offering and attendance records, and generally prowl the halls as an enforcer. (dun dun duh...) I also keep a finger on the opening-session worship band schedule and--my alltime favorite--arrange for subs when someone is out of town. (Ick.) It's pretty fun overall, until something gets discombobulated. I like the kids, and the teachers are great. I'm a good organizer, even if I don't get all uptight about exactly what the teachers are doing every minute of every class.
Breathe a sigh of relief.
But, due to the holiday, we were indubitably discombobulated this Sunday. I knew we would be, so I had plans....
Quake with fear, disorder, for I bringeth...Charlie Brown Christmas! Let's do the Snoopy dance!
Still have some extra time? No problem. I'll ad lib a ten minute talk about goats. Really. (It's a missionary project thing, I promise.) Then we can ship all the kids back to their rooms with their teachers for the last few minutes. They can talk about turkey, or Jesus...whatever. If I don't have enough teachers? No sweat. I have a Koosh ball in my purse. I can pinch hit as a sub.
So, I arrive a few minutes before the service starts, ready to get rolling.
And run smack into the director from the previous service. Who has a bit of a tendency to be a high-energy, high-stress micromanagement speciality item. I very nearly recoiled, but controlled myself before I could physically dive-roll and run for the door, and greeted her cheerfully.
"Are you doing a video? We did a video. Don't do the same one, some of the kids go to both services."
I nod, and smile. I knew that already.
"Here's the worship DVD since there's no band. There's no band!"
I knew there'd be no band.
She said a long stream of something else, but honestly, I tuned out. She had redirected her attention to one of the other teachers anyway, a sweet lady who often sings with the kids' worship band. Then I realized she was dumping the responsibility of worship time on my teacher. For my service.
Geez, lady! Hands off. I'm standing right here, perfectly capable of running my own service.
But I didn't say anything. And she soon left. And then I told my teacher she didn't have to sing. She could just relax, take a week off if she wanted.
And then I talked about goats.

The other director? A great person. Passionate, dedicated--loves Jesus, loves kids.
And so NOT like me. I get high energy. I get passionate. I like to serve. But, thank God, I'm generally organized and chill. Simultaneously. It was sweet of him to show me that.

going for broke

So, I'm gasping for air, sweat making my shirt cling to my body and running down the sides of my face. It's chilly, so my nose is running. I've taken a couple hard falls; I know I'll be sore tomorrow. I wish I had cleats  on; I've lost my footing several times today, once falling flat on my face, almost hard enough to knock the wind out of me. One of my hands stings; I've definitely bruised the meaty part of my palm this week; last week I broke a blood vessel on one of my fingers. Three weeks ago I earned a hand-sized bruise on my shin.

What on earth am I doing? I'm playing. Playing hard. Really hard. I've never been particulary nimble or quick, but by pushing hard I can keep up with just about anyone in this group.
Why? Why punish my body like this? Why try so hard when it doesn't really mean anything?

Because it's not punishment. It's love.

Love of life, and love for my body--for the fact that I can run and jump and hurl myself through the air and catch and throw and fall and laugh. It makes me feel alive. Truly, truly alive. Something in me loosens, for better or worse, making me just a tad wild and loud and flamboyant and perhaps, depending on your persepective, totally nuts. Those who know me are nodding their heads. Perhaps laughing. They've seen me like this.

So, even though I'll need a hot pad for my back after the game, I'll do it again. And again. Because life should be more than just sort of trying. Sometimes, you gotta push it. I'll never be an all-star, and I'll certainly never look attractive while doing it--but I do it, gladly.

I fall again, as three of us collide. I roll over my shoulder onto the cold turf, and laugh. I'm not the only one laughing. I bet God is laughing to, delighting in the fact that I delight in this body he's made me. And laughing because I look so silly.

guess what we're doing...

I'll give you a hint. It involves fabric and a staple gun.

fragility

And still and still and still
there is this restless seeker within me
and I had hoped she’d be dead by now,
dead and buried and at peace,
not writhing on this bed of apathy, not half-sedated by dreaming.
No, she must die.
Die—or be brought fully to life, to her feet, to dance, to sing, to make love
to chance to explore to leap so high into the air that
so high into the air that
so high into the air that
so high into the air that

And still and still and still
there is this restless seeker within me.