Quiet Glee

There is no shortage of Not Okay in this little world of ours.  If this little room in the interwebs reflects anything, it's my awareness and wrestle with the Not Okay.

But good living requires some Praise Be! and the last two weeks have been full of it.  Sunshine and ocean and togetherness are my family's favourite things and enjoying said favourite things for this long is The Opposite of Not Okay.  Like maybe even Really Great.

However, I don't know how to make sense of the Really Great.  I mean, I enjoy it, but in my world view when the beauty of God With Us is the comfort of the Light when life is Dark, there's not a lot of room for Light when there is an abundance of light already.  Is that f*cked or what?

My holiday included a later-blogged-about-by-coHolidaying-blogger conversation about the silliness of giving God credit for when good things happen (Hallelujah! The cancer is gone! I got the job! She said yes! I found a parking spot! Jesus loves me so much...) but not blaming same deity when things go awry.  I listened in on the conversation, but really, didn't have a lot to say 'cause that's just not how I live in the Kingdom.

Trying to make sense of this happy place in my life, I realize it's actually the exact opposite of my own zone: I have lots of time for the Prince of Peace, the Wonderful Counselor, Almighty God, Creator Deity who shows up when the going gets tough and says Do Not Be Afraid for I Am With You and other lovely things.  For the Great Hander-Outer of Treats in the Sky, not so much.

So my spiritual discipline for the next 24 hours will be keeping my eyes open for That God, the One who delights in doing good and in unreasonable generosity and maybe even this quiet glee I find myself packing back into our suitcases.

Strands

There are little wisps of thought floating through my mind tonight and they're kind of hard to pin down. So in no particular order...

... Talia didn't believe me that she could swim. But then she could and she did it over and over for an hour and every single time her head came up, she said "I did it!" And her whole face kept that brand-new wonder look on it and stayed fresh and first-timed for the whole hour and I wondered if ever in my life again would I get to feel that accomplished and glad.

... Being able to go on holiday with a whole other family is its own crazy kind of miracle.  Now in fairness, they may have just left plotting how to move to Nantucket before we get back.  But we just spent almost two weeks with four other people who shared and played and laughed and whined and whinged and ate and just plain shared life and while it was full, it was never hard.  It was just nice and easy and pleasant and ...possible. Surely that counts as a miracle, right?

... Somewhere along the way, my crazy about being rich and holiday just kind of disappeared. Somewhere in time it just became better to receive.  To receive our hosts' generosity, to receive the gift of time with my people, to receive the loveliness of sunshine and play, to receive the Oh My! of Enough from the Creator.  Again, this feels like another miracle.

... Too many people I know are having to be afraid this week.  Afraid for their own lives. Knowing Jesus helps me be afraid with them, and I think it may help one of them walk a bit more easily with their own fear.  But it doesn't erase it.  And yet, the Word was Do Not Be Afraid For I am With You.  So maybe some Not So Afraid will be its own miracle for the week ahead.

The Universalist Strikes Again!

Today I interrupted my very glamourous holiday to have coffee with our lovely hostess and my co-holidayer. This is a bit of a tradition for us ladies and a sweet one at that. I may not have yet mentioned that our hostess is ludicrously generous with us, but know that this caffeinated moment reminds me that her generosity of heart is greater still than her generosity of home (and groceries and sunscreen and books and wine and beer and...).  My co-holidayer I already know to be lovely and sweet but even we enjoy these brief moments away from our small people and married-tos to hear the others' lives.

But of course, I had to take my crazy with me.

As we sat and caught up on Life As It Is Right Now, it became beautifully clear that Lovely Hostess and Co-Holidayer have some Ways in common.  Ways of loving, and ways of being in the world that they shared, and that make them say to each other, "I know! Me too!"

Ways that are nothing like me and my ways.

And I realized that as much as I kind of assume that everyone must be just like me and living in the world just like me, I also want to be just like everyone else and live in the world just like them.

But I couldn't do it.  As they talked about the dynamic they live with the attendant challenges and blessings that way brings, I couldn't say "Me too!".  I had to smile and nod and say "Yes, I see that in you." And then when LH said, "Now you, you're not like that at all", I had to smile and nod and say, "Nope, not so much."

One thing that's nice about being in my mid-(late?) thirties and not in my mid-(late?) twenties, is that I feel less pressure to pretend. There was a day, not too long ago, when I would have tried to pull it off: "Oh yeah, I totally know what you mean. One time, I even did this [insert obviously implausible, made-up story here] thing, just like you!" Then I would feel like a lying, misfit loser for the rest of the day, instead of just a misfit loser.  And maybe now in my old age, it's mostly just misfit.

I want my experience to Universal, 'tis sure.  But the flip-side of that is that in my deep heart's desire to Belong, is the lurking desire to be Just Like You, whoever you happen to be. In my teens, this was near-disastrous more than once.  In my thirties, it's just kind of sobering.  But it makes me think that one of the lovelinesses of the Kingdom is the promise of belonging in an eternal, last-forever way. 

I'm betting that in Heaven every conversation will include "Me too!"  If it doesn't, I may have to quit.

I'm Happy!

I promise! I'm happy in the sun and the surf and with all my people.  I really, truly am.  And in my whole life, in my regular, day-to-day, folding the laundry life, I'm happy then too.

My friend who is getting suntanned near me all the time this week said that sometimes she wonders if people who were to read this blog but didn't know me would maybe wonder if I'm okay, or think that maybe I'm only a leaner-to-the-dark-sider. And last week I found out that a distant relative type person had read the blog since it transitioned from baby book to... this, had phoned around to make sure my children were safe.  Or at least that I was well.

Anyway, for a few minutes I wondered if I should start trying for more sunshine.  Then I remembered the part where I believe in the jinxing and think that if I started typing sunshine, said sunshine would be taken away.  Sure it's nutty to write the dark side merely to protect the sunshine but truly, the world is full of crazier than this and I can live with it.

But for the record, I'm happy!  Really, really, happy.

And now back to me.

Just to say this.  One thing that I am noticing is that vacations and Advent have this in common: I have high expectations.  And this too: they get dashed.  It turns out, as you may have noticed, that there is no vacation from my crazy.  Nor is there vacation from my being unduly mean to my husband, from my children being subpar sharers or from my fear of jinxing.

But nor is there a holiday from good friends who say things like, "Enjoy your sabbath." Who remind me that there is more than my crazy to consider. There is no holiday from the husband who squeezes my shoulders at the right moment, from children who delight in Summer! Right now! Summer!

Oh holiday. I'm enjoying you.

Oh My Soul

[Caveat: see previous post to be reminded that I know this is probably Sin and Wrong and should be making me crazy.]

So today I was floating in the pool. My kids were splashing and thrilling with their waterwings on.  My husband was flooding their little pool with water from the big pool.  My friend was cuddling with her sweet new babe while her husband cheered her newly floating toddler next to me. I said to our host, "I can't think of one single thing more to want right this second."

And then I rested my head back in the water, and floated away from them all; all I could hear was the hum of water past my ears.  And all I could think was

REJOICE! OH MY SOUL! REJOICE!  ALL that is in me!! Praise his HOLY NAME!

God. I get so religious sometimes.

But seriously, I just was so full of gratitude and awe that this space had been provided for us all.  That we were all warm and happy and feeling loved and loving and even successful.  My kids were wallowing in the wonder of being swimmers and all four of us I think were feeling like Good Parents who enjoy the small people we've been given.

It was such a contrast to the resentful, sullen, burdened-ness of regular life. 

And the contrast, it makes me want to Praise a God.  I want to know how to make my soul do whatever it is that lets the Creator know that I've noticed the moment and that I am awestruck by it. That I know that All Of This is worthy of my praise. 

Day to day, I believe that no matter the circumstance, I will praise him still. I do. And my best parts always want to.  But on this day, it was all my parts. Or maybe today just allowed all my parts to be at their best. I don't know. I just know I willed my liver and my pituitary gland to join in...

Languid Mess

Well, not so much a mess. In fact, maybe the opposite of mess.  But languid for certain. It is the perfect word for the lazy, molasses existence we have just slipped into.  Two slow mornings, easy lunches, wandering walks to the beach, un-harried bedtimes with our small people.

We are island people in our hearts.

The mess is, of course, all inside my head, where I wrassle and wrangle with the lunacy of holidays, and particularly hot, tropical holidays in villas with pools and food and beaches and a towel guy who just hands over unlimited towels.  And then takes them back. Sandy and damp and toddlered.  It's like a towel miracle every day.

But you know, I'm on holiday, so I'm not even going to indulge my crazy.  Sure I look just like all the other fat, rich, happy people wandering the beaches with their beautiful, well-behaved, athletic children. But in my heart, I know the truth.  I just don't want to live in the truth this week.  I want to live all the way in this Fantasy Land where we don't think twice about it - drinks at the beach bar? Sure! An extra sunhat? Why not!? We are those people this week damnit.

I can feel shitty about it when we get home.  Right now, mama needs a latte...

I Love Me Some Tiger

So if you are a) a mother or b) on facebook or c) listen to CBC radio, you've probably either read the article, or heard its author interviewed.  Amy Chua is crazy smart and possibly just kind of crazy.  But mostly Chinese and a mother. And a Writer too.

What an awesome combination.

Reading the exerpt from her book, it's pretty easy to get to that kind of defensive WTF?! disguised as reasoned criticism: but how do her daughters feel about all this crazyness? But then if you've ever experienced any self-doubt at all about your own parenting choices, fairly quickly the Other Voice pipes up, "I bet she's right."  And then if you're maybe kind of nutty in your own way, you might spend a few days thinking (a bit obsessively) about how to become a Chinese mother, because you know what? You DO value perseverance and excellence and self-respect and accomplishment and damn it, just because you don't really persevere or excel doesn't mean your kids can't....

But then you start reading the criticism in the comments and in other op-ed pieces all over the internet (I liked this one a lot) and then you remember that maybe you do kind of prefer social intelligence and emotional intelligence over piano practice stamina.

And then finally, if you're me, you kind of think about what it's like to be Amy Chua these days.

There's the wonder of being well-read and talked about. I bet her book sales are so happy-making and feed her soul.  I bet every call for an interview adds seven days to her life.  I bet when she was having her make-up fixed for her Today Show appearance, she was thinking, This Rocks.

But then there's the terror of being a mother.  And of believing 90% for sure it's true, that the path you've chosen for your sweet small people is a good one.  And maybe not even just a good one, but The Right One.  There's the watching your small people turn into mid-sized people who begin to edge into just plain People People and thinking, I think this is going to work out.

But that 10%.... that 10% is a little death every day.  At some point during one of those violin practice marathons, a little tiny voice said "You're a moron. You're wrecking her. Quit."  I know, deep in my heart this is true. Second-guessing is what separates us from the dolphins and you can be western or eastern or equatorial - you've got second-guessing sewn into your DNA.  I think they have some science on it somewhere.

Regardless, I think once the camera lights are off, once the interviewer tucks away their iPencil, she freaks right the hell out.

Because she's a mother and she's mostly sure but not all the way sure and then because she's a Writer and she couldn't stop herself, she wrote that shit down and made it sound like she was sure it was True. And it is True. She knows it.

Except for in those moments when she doesn't.  And in those dark, maybe-not moments, Amy and I are sisters.

Good luck sister.

Not My Skill Set

Thanks to the magic of video on demand, we're getting to watch the HBO series 24/7 Penguins/Capitals.  Just finished the first episode, on our way to the second. And it's so great.  Just really great.

One thing that quickly becomes clear is that there really is no part of me that could have pulled off a life in sport. Particularly on a team.  But I think probably individual sporting would not see me fare any better.  Rhythmic gymnastics or synchronised swimming are equally out of my reach, and were from very early on.

There is the obvious requirement for physical skill and some degree of co-ordination.  To be honest, I've always secretly believed that probably my body could have come through on that front had it been given the opportunity. I'm lithe-ish, with healthy organs and no glaring deformities that would have prevented me from pursuing my athletic dreams, had I had any.

As we all know though, I am not one for dreams. I mean, there is the Top Secret Dream That Shall Not Be Named (Yet), but other than that, I'm not so much the dreamer.  I guess I've always been too busy pursuing my Passion. 

So there's that. No dreams.  But at this point, watching these players, I don't think this is so much about their dreams either.  I mean, they've arrived at the Dream Come True part, and for most of them, they've actually wandered right through that room and straight into the Plain Old Real Life one. I can't imagine that it takes all that long before the wonder of being paid to play a game kind of wears off and now it's just a day job (well, evening gig mostly) that pays unusually well.

Watching the Capitals wrangle with a wicked losing streak and feeling their helplessness as all their fixes fix nothing, I think, that's not all that different from depression or disordered anxiety.  You know you've won before, but there is right there, all the time, the lingering fear that you will never win again.  Not disimilar from the fear that you will never be happy again.  The looks on their faces as they walk back down the tunnel after another bad period is so frikkin' familiar. I think I had that look on my face walking out to make breakfast in the midst of the Advent Debacle of 2010.

And this is why I wouldn't make it in pro sports.  Because they keep playing.  Together.  They show up the next day.  And I don't think I would.  I think I'd turn on them. I'd spend all my waking hours planning monologues that would let every single one of them know why they sucked and were bringing us down. I'd phone my mom and tell her how the coach is a moron and should be selling shoes or something.  I'd email  Karen and moan about how that other guy is totally cheating at practice and not even trying.

But mostly I'd know it was my fault.

Don't worry though. If we were winning all the time like the Penguins, I'd be secretly pretty certain that it was because of me too.

I think this is tied to what they call mental toughness.  I don't think I have the brand required for sports.  It appears I may have the kind well suited to Advent Recovery, but I dont think it's transferable.

Does anyone pay for pro-Adventing?

Where I Do Something Mean

So, I know (I know) as well as any other what bravery is required to write down your heart's truest Trues and put them out in the public domain. To think through all that life brings you and test it against what you hope is to be hoped for and then write it down and say to a few others, D'ya think?

Knowing this, I therefore know that it is really mean to trip across someone's writing down of things and then link it to your own blog wherein you shred said writing down of things apart, exposing it as Clearly Hope in What Ought Not to Be Hoped For.

So I'm not going to link to it.  But I am going to paste some copy from it here, and if you want the link, you can email me and I'll send it to you. Because I also got a really good recipe for homemade deoderant on this same site and there might be other gold there to be mined.

She starts this particular post with a description of God creating the world. "There was order with each passing day." And very quickly, she leaps from there to this:

As we are created in His very image, I believe God has designed us to be creatures of order. God worked in an ordered, simple way, and we are commissioned to follow in this example. If we keep this vision in the foremost of our thinking, that God fashioned you to be orderly in your homemaking and lifestyle, than this goal will be a rock to stand upon.

Speechless.

But can't stop reading. This:

Is clutter and disorder in our lives a good representation of Jesus Christ? Chaos in our lives is a sign that our relationship with Christ is probably askew. If there is disorder, stress, and clutter, we may just want to step back and evaluate our hearts. Am I submitting to your design for order, God? Or is ME on the throne in my home and I cannot let go. Make sure Jesus is the Lord of your home, submit to His design, and He will guide you each step of the way.

Listen, I don't think I even want to say anything else.  Except for this maybe.  These things hurt my heart. Because a) she believes this, and therefore believes 1) that her ordered home is a sign that she's got it right with Jesus and 2) that anyone she knows with a disordered home is being frowned on by Jesus; and b) (should I have used bullets?) she really and truly wants and needs other people to believe this too so that she can keep on believing 1 & 2 which seem to be kind of lynch-pinny to her understanding of what Jesus might love about her.

And then maybe I also want to say this.  First, mostly this just makes me laugh because really, it is kind of funny.  Jesus, Lord of my home = planned meals and routine housekeeping? I just keep picturing her face when she walks into Jesus' room in heaven for Wednesday night drinks (surprise number 1, right?) and discovers He never puts away laundry. 

But then second, it makes me kind of want to cry because I write down all kinds of crazy shit that I really hope and want to be true about Jesus (see... well, just about every post here) and probably it's just as ludicrous to the Lord as I'm hoping this is.  See? Crying.

Being a Jesus Freak is hard.

Lifting the Ban*

So probably I'm going to do and say things that make it okay for more people to read my blog.  And that's all that I have to say about that. Well, and this: if there is a post that you liked and you decide you want to share it with someone else and maybe before I've said that this blog was only for the invited, I think I am thinking that it would be okay for those who have already been invited to do their own inviting.

And for real, that's all I have to say about this. For now.

*If you didn't know there was a ban, well, it wasn't so much a ban but maybe a caution. But you know, my life coach suggested it.  (Oh, laughing to myself is so fun. My Life Coach. ha! But she is a really good friend. Again.)

Stealing

I think if someone sleep-blogs and then tells you about their sleep-blog but doesn't actually awake-blog it themselves, it is okay to cut and paste their sleep-blog into your awake blog. Especially if you give that sleep-blogger credit.  Thanks Sarah.

So here's what Sarah sleep-blogged. Or at least what she told me she sleep-blogged:

I was sleep-blogging last night about how terrible it would be to have Jesus as a dinner guest. Sure, He'd be nice about the meal, and I don't think He'd mind the cat hairs. Or the pee Buddy pees all over the toilet seat. But what on earth would we talk about????

Here's what my first answer was:

I think I'm going to have to think more about Jesus as a dinner guest. I guess I always assumed we'd mostly talk about me, with a few shout-outs to the poor to keep him thinking I'm a decent person...

I'm sticking with my answer for the time being, but maybe I want to add a few things. I mean first of all, at my house, Jesus wouldn't be distracted by cat hair, so I have that.  And then there is the pee on the seat, but I think I just won't offer a lot of beverages and maybe it won't be an issue.

When it comes to dinner chat, I'm pretty agile, and I could probably get us through the initial meet and greet alright, but after that, what happens? Is Jesus a question-asker? Or just a long pause kind of guy? How long would it take us to get to what he thinks of me?

Because remember the whole Affluence dilemma, right? That Matthew guy says near the end of his gospel that Jesus meets people at heaven's door and basically says to people who thought they were totally in, I don't know you.  And then all the people who thought they weren't down with Jesus but oddly were out visiting people in prison, feeding hungry people and giving clothes to the naked - to them he says, You! Finally you! so glad to see you! That was me you were helping! Can you believe it?

So probably sometime around dessert (do you offer after-dinner drinks to The Lord?) I'd try to muster up the courage to ask, Do You know me?

But there might be better topics. Friends, over to you. What on earth would you talk about if Jesus showed up for dinner?

(Sarah, hope you'll forgive me. I promise to share a sleep-blog with you back.)

Pansy

So I was going to convene a coven. I was going to invite a few more friends to read the blog and join my existing friends who read the blog and maybe join in the conversation. It was part of my plan to Be A Writer in 2011. I wondered if maybe my writing is like art, and benefits from an audience.  I even sent out one invitation (I'm lookin' at you SW!).

And then I quit.

Today I was with a friend for an unplanned catching up.  She knows me pretty well, and even knows about one or two secret dreams.  She even asked about one of them. The problem with secret dreams is that for them to be realized, they have to stop being secret.  And so we talked about why it would be so difficult to un-secretize this one dream in particular, and everytime I brought up a reason why it should perhaps remain secret, she would call that compelling reason a lie. She kept asking me why I was believing so many lies.  It was so annoying.

Writing is maybe a semi-secret dream. Or maybe not even a dream, but a newly discovered pleasure.  There is most certainly a pleasure in the process, but the truth is that the real pleasure is in the Having-It-Read-By-Others-ness.  So asking Others to Read It was part of increasing the pleasure.  Increasing the pleasure would make it more appealing to continue and continuing would make it more likely that I would eventually come up with something of value.  That Others Could Read. I suspect this little cycle is the reason so many books are published.

There is probably lots of smart thinking already out there about the writer/reader dynamic, about art and audience. And maybe one day I'll read it.

But right now, I'm living with the part where asking for an audience seems too... much. Like I don't want to be the kind of person who wants... well, who wants anything.  Indifference is so much cooler, you know?

And this is the difficulty with the other secret dream - it requires saying fairly loudly, I'm Not Indifferent. Which in my mind means yelling, I'M NOT COOL.  [Oh dear.  The depravity of my own self is shattering sometimes. Can you believe how sad this is?? Is someone keeping track of my list of Things to Get Counselling For?]

So the question tonight is, am I a pansy? Am I too afraid of looking dumb to ask for a few to join in what has so far been mostly monologue, just for my own pleasure?  Am I too afraid of my own fear to un-secretize a dream? 

My secret self is saying maybe not.

Love Languages

Today I reorganized a few of our kitchen cupboards. I threw out spices that pre-dated our marriage, conceded that we probably wouldn't ever make use of the mini-baster and made room for some new glassware. It may be the highlight of my year.

Glowing with the success of it all, I summoned my beloved over to marvel at my marvelous-ness. I opened drawer number one and showed him the glory of sorted measuring spoons and Kitchen Aid attachments;  he slipped his arm around me and started to nuzzle my neck.

It is at moments like these that I realize that men and women were not intended to live together. Full time.  Probably we are better suited to more short-term meet-and-greets.

I slammed his arms away and shouted (yes, shouted) "God dammit! No! My love language is WORDS OF AFFIRMATION! Yours is touch. Not. Mine."  Wisely, he laughed and asked for a do-over, so I closed the drawer and then dramatically reopened it, at which point he said most sincerely, "That looks great. Thank you so much for putting so much time into this. I feel better already. Thanks."  I said, "You're welcome" and walked away, still kind of irked.  If you weren't clear before now, be clear: he is the better person in our marriage most days.

So obviously, he left for work and I dwelled (dwelt?) on this most of the night. Not so much the specific situation but the relentless work of sharing life with someone who needs almost the opposite of what I do to feel loved. And then I caught myself wondering, but what's God's love language? Is the Creator of All a sucker for Receiving Gifts? And aren't we all kind of screwed if it's Physical Touch? I may be up all night worrying about this.

I'm not sure what the answer is, but I think I decided I was glad that the Father knows that my own preference is affirmation with a sprinkling of quality time. I'm pretty sure I heard, "Drawers look great!" while we were watching the hockey game tonight...

PS:  Do you know how hard it is to avoid the male pronoun for God? I'm not passionate about it and obviously use male-centric labels and names often. But it bugs me and I wish it wasn't so hard.

PPS: Do you know how annoying spell check is when you make up as many words as I do?

Prove It

I totally believe in jinxing.  I do. I don't know why I forget that I do.  I'm dumb that way.

I guess in my heart, I knew that when I wrote yesterday's post, I was tempting the jinxing gods.  And yet, it had to be written so you know, what could I do? post. That's what I did.

And sure enough, our car broke down. As I limped our vehicle down to the repair shop, I could hear the universe whispering, "So. How rich are ya feeling now?"  As I signed away permission for the surly service guy to do whatever he felt was right, a suprisingly loud voice said "Yep, good thing you're so rich."

For a bit there, I considered caving.  But then I remembered that I still believed what I believed yesterday. That our affluence isn't so much in our cash flow, but in our capacity to absorb surprises, get help, make do and get through.  And that we still have in spades.  The kids were with my mom, I could borrow my dad's car, the car seats are easy to move around and we live in a central part of the world where nothing we need is so far away that we couldn't get it if we needed it.

So screw you Jinxing Guy. This time, I'm holding out. I realize this is terribly dangerous and things could get a lot worse, petty jinxing guy that you are.  But I think I'm going to believe that Jesus trumps Jinxing Guy.  At least for the next twelve hours or so.

Affluence

We're pretty rich. I've mentioned before, my outrageous superfluity, almost excess, of amazing friends. I am astounded by it often actually. And of course, we're regular rich - one of the top 0.72% richest people in the world (next time you're feeling broke, check your income here - it's quite sobering).  We have enough money to pay for more than adequate housing, above-average medical care, food & drink and footwear.  We drive a safe car and can always put fuel in it. And we holiday in amazing spots (14 days....) and have a frikkin' boat.  We are regular rich.

Sometimes of course, we forget. Most days actually.  Much like the friend thing whereby even though I have so many amazing friends, I still feel lonely with surprising regularity, when it comes to our richness, we usually feel broke and poor. So broke and poor do we feel that we become blind to the perks of our other-worldly affluence, which I'm pretty sure makes Jesus so mad he wants to drink gin out of the cat dish (did I get that quote right? I know Ms. Lamott mixes Jesus and gin with aplomb but I can't bring myself to actually look it up to make sure I have it right).

For the last week or so, Nate has been chewing on his hands and pointing to his teeth anytime he's asked what hurts. Very teething-ish, except for the part where he has all his teeth.  When he wouldn't sleep last night, Scott wondered aloud how much discomfort I would need to see before I called the dentist.  I had been putting it off because I was afraid that an abscess would ruin our upcoming glamorous holiday. But I sucked it up and phoned this morning.  Sandra the kind phone-answerer slotted us in for 11:45, assuring me that it was exactly the right thing to do to get it checked out. At the appointed time, we found ourselves in Dr. Gerry's Happiest Place On Earth dental office where said Dr told me that in fact young Nate hadn't finished with his last molars and that this was really just teething with a bit of gum inflammation at the site that would require a bit more diligent brushing while the tooth finished erupting (I LOVE that word for teething. Yes. It. Is. Erupting).  Relieved, if not feeling a bit foolish, we found our way back through the ocean wonderland to the reception area where Sandra waved me out  - "Don't worry about it. See you next time."

Now let it be said that I hadn't really worried about it to begin with. Well, maybe a little, in that I figured I wouldn't get reimbursed by the insurance people for at least a week and maybe that would be a drag. But now I really, truly didn't have to worry about it at all.

And this is the part where I realized how ludicrously rich we are. Because I used to live in a community where children didn't see dentists, ever. Or if they did, it was in a crappy public clinic where they got crappy care and because they hadn't had decent care ever before, they required major intervention and so it was terrible and crappily-provided.  And if they did ever have to pay for it, it wasn't an inconvenience for a few days, it was a grocery bill or maybe a rental payment.

And now here was me just taking my kid into the happiest place on earth to have his teeth checked for free because I was kind of worried about ruining my exotic holiday. I didn't think twice about calling, about how to get there, about whether they would be kind to me, or respectful.  I didn't think about who I would call to borrow money from if it turned out to be something serious, or how I would explain to my husband that he would have to double-shift all month so that the kid wouldn't be in pain, or loose a tooth.

That's what makes us rich.  Not just the balance in black in our bank account. Or even the boat and exotic holiday. It's the social ease, the not-worrying moments that work out because we in the top 1% and the world is set up to take care of us. It's that part.

Jesus didn't have a lot of patience for the rich and that always makes me nervous.  I worry about showing up and having the Lord say, "I don't know you."  I'm not sure what to do about it. I feel a lot like the rich man who wanted to follow Jesus but just couldn't bring himself to sell all his possessions.  It's not so much that I can't let go of the boat, but more that I can't let go of the privilege.  And if my time in Camden taught me anything, it's that even when I'm poor, I can't shake the things that make me rich, so deeply sewn into me are they. 

So then I guess I just get to hope that knowing the depth of the poverty of my own soul, or at least the shallow parts of the abyss that is me, will be enough for Jesus to look a second time and say, "Oh wait... no, I think I do remember you. We met once.  Well, come on in and let's see if we can get this figured out."