Saturday, February 27, 2010

Misfiring

One of my favorite quotes is from Julian of Norwich, who said, "All will be well - every manner of thing will be well." Sometimes, though, "things" in my life seems to misfire. Like when I get to court and realize that my socks don't match. Or make a special trip to the office supply store to buy an ink cartridge and get all the way back home before realizing it's the wrong one.

The other day, I was on the phone with my middle son; daylight was quickly dwindling, my ancient pooch desperately wanted her walk, and I decided I could surely do both activities at the same time. Getting the leash on one-handed was a little difficult, but I managed. Once Goofy Pooch was out, I stepped one foot back into the house to close the door. The leash and telephone in one hand, I reached for the door with the other - and my foot began to slip on the runner in the entrance hall.

What my inner logic was for not letting go of the leash or phone, I don't know. In semi-slow-motion, I saw myself sink into modified splits before toppling backward and crashing to the floor. There was a loud "thunk!" as the bottom of my pelvic bone came into hard contact with the hall tile.

Not surprisingly, I yelled. My son, hearing only "Ahh!" and "Ohh!" began yelling, "Mom! Mom!" Goofy Pooch tugged at the leash (still in my hand) and shot me looks that accused me of sprawling in the doorway for recreational purposes. It was a brief and completely undignified bedlam.

Another misfire later that week was less painful. I have a well-earned reputation for being punctuality-challenged, and have been trying to correct that persistent flaw. So when a good client sent me on assignment to a law office, I carefully calculated my time to allow for the construction traffic on my route and left the house with plenty of time.

What I had forgotten about were the school zones. Traffic slowed to an agonizing crawl. When the clock on the dashboard reached 1:55, I called the client and babbled an apology, explaining that I was only 10 minutes away. The project manager assured me that all was well. Nine minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot, dashed upstairs to the office, and practically dove through the door, apologizing for being a few minutes late. The friendly young receptionist told me to have a seat, and insisted that all was well. The attorney who had asked for me stuck his head out into the waiting room and said that no one else had arrived yet and to relax - all was well. And then it hit me: my appointment wasn't for 2:00. It was for 2:30. I was 25 minutes early. I had yet again failed in my efforts at punctuality, but this time on the upside.

And while this kind of winning misfire would normally tempt me to sit on my laurels, I had to pass. I was still sitting on ice packs.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Happily Ever After

Once upon a time, in a kingdom not so far away, there was a woman. Just a regular woman, like you might pass in the grocery store or run into at PTA. (Except that she was never good about going to PTA.) Still, what matters to the story is that there was this ordinary woman, and she believed in True Love and Dreams and Walks in the Rain. So she walked in the rain with her little boys, and dreamed of her True Love but she always woke up before she could reach out and touch him. And that's how she thought life should be. She was just an ordinary woman, after all.

Then, one day, a man rode into her life. He wasn't a prince and he didn't have a white horse; he had a black and red pickup. (Black body, red hood, long story.) He was a middle-aged man with a crooked grin and calloused hands from years of playing bass guitar. The moment she saw him, the woman fell in love.

They were married and added to each other's world sons, daughters-in-law, granddaughters and dogs. The man brought her roses and sang to her and rubbed her shoulders when she got tired. He learned to cook her favorite foods. She learned to pronounce things in his native Texas accent just to hear him laugh.

But you know that part in the stories about riding off into the sunset? They don't mention that sometimes only one of you does. One February 20, the man crossed into the sunset, and for a moment the whole universe stopped.

This ordinary woman still finds comfort in the rain. Sometimes the man walks through her dreams and when she wakes up, she remembers what it was like to hold him. And she found out that it isn't about how long you have Happily Ever After for. It's that you have it at all.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Fresh Bread and Lent

I love bread. One of my earliest memories is of Mom letting us kids take turns "punching" the rising dough, then breaking off a piece so that we could each make our own bread. Sometimes my siblings and I would take some raisins, stuff them inside a blob of bread dough, and slide a (clean) stick through the top of the blob. We called these creations "wasp nests". I guess that's to be expected for kids who grew up in the jungle.

After we moved out of the jungle and into town, Mom would give me money to run out and meet the bread man as he walked the neighborhood pushing his cart. I loved hearing the bells on the cart handles ring but when he took the lid off the breadbox - that was magic. The smell of freshly baked buns and rolls would envelope me as I leaned over to point out what we wanted.

I also love Lent. By the simple act of stepping outside our comfort zones, we create room for discovery. I think of the historical period of Lent, when Jesus was inexorably moving toward Jerusalem and his followers could tell that something amazing was going to happen. The politically-minded among them might have been itching for Jesus' rebellion against Rome. Those more theologically inclined might have planned flyers for the Big Temple Revival.

Whatever their expectations, Jesus stepped outside their comfort zone. No rebellion, no takeover of the temple. In fact, none of the familiar trappings that they had grown up expecting from the Messiah.

He took them down a completely different road, one of loss and redemption. He shook the foundation of their world and changed the shape of ours.

So this Lenten season, I've decided to give up bread. Not because of the traditional symbolisms it holds of life, sustenance, or abundance. I'm giving it up because it has always been a normal, comfortable part of my life, and for these next few weeks it's time to step out of my comfort zone and walk a road of discovery.

I'm just hoping that the road doesn't lead me past bread carts with bells or wasp nests stuffed with raisins.