The Last Supper

This week my amazing boss stepped down to take on an awesome new position with a local non-profit, and those of you that know me could probably tell I was having a really hard time swallowing the change. The hard part, for me, when I found out was that I couldn't talk about it. A lot of the staff members didn't know she was leaving yet, and the word wasn't supposed to get out to the congregation until Sunday, so I needed to keep it to myself. Problem #1: I process everything by talking about it. That doesn't mean I can't keep a secret or deal with life's struggles without telling the world but my entire life is interpersonally based.

Initially that really worried me because I'm getting deeper and deeper into this thing we call ministry, but I'm realizing that I was missing another important element as well--my journal. It went MIA last week along with my cell phone, Rainbows, and bowling league paperwork, and it really is my prayer vehicle. It's not that I can't just fold my hands, bow my head, and close my eyes, but those conversations feel about as awkward as if I were to try to talk to YOU with the same posture. The Creator and I communicate best when I'm writing him a letter or chatting out loud in the car, and somehow the entire week escaped me before I consciously realized any of this.

With as much of an extrovert as I am, I should have figured this out a while ago, but what I'm learning, I guess, is that I don't feel like I'm really living unless I'm communing. Which, by the way, is the biggest reason why I still feel like Trinity theology is indispensable. It's all part of that created-in-the-image thing. I can't even begin to grasp how awe-full the communion of God is, but if it's anything close to my own desperation for contact, it's bound to be a pretty powerful force. All in all, it just makes me that much more thankful that I'm invited to the table too.

The closest analogy I can come to is the year in college where my new-found best friend, Angela, invited me home with her for the weekend before our first finals week. I began to gather some personal items, and she told me to bring all of my dirty laundry. I drove us out and was immediately greeted by both parents, whom I'd only met in passing, with a kiss on the cheek, a huge hug, and a hose--they wanted to wash my car while I put a load of laundry in (WHAT?!)

So, we all hung out and chatted for a while, I spent the night, and we ate her dad's wonderful tacos that reminded me of home. The next day I woke up to a hot breakfast and a public announcement that the Hueth Family Christmas celebration would start in 30 minutes! My immediate reaction was an offer to head back to the dorm, but they insisted that I stay and help them with last-minute gift wrapping. The afternoon was filled with family photos on automatic timers so that I could be in the shots too, sibling inside jokes, and quirky family traditions.

I think the Last Supper was probably a lot more like the Hueth Family Christmas of 2002. If being in the presence isn't enough, I'm invited to chill on the floor and pig out with the family while they wash my car and offer me the laundry room. This week I feel like I've moved from a guest in the house to just another member of the family. It comes with dish washing duty and more personal information than I may have ever wanted to know, but I'm welcomed--no questions asked.

This kind of grace that goes beyond forgiving neglect to as-is acceptance is yet another reason why I can't give up on the church.

Politickin'

I hate politics. I hate what the word stands for, and I hate what all it really entails. It's supposed to be the way that groups of people make decisions--the problem being that groups of people are the ones making the decisions. When did group grope and mass think become the staple for trouble shooting? Shoot me now!...figuratively speaking, of course.

This is how individuals get trampled with no one to blame because "politics" is an easier scapegoat than the ambiguous "they" that seem to say everything with just an unnoticeable twinge of ever-knowing judgment.

I love my life; I love my life; I love my life. I love my God, and I love my life.

Sharon has been singing behind me all day, bless her.

"Bind us together, Lord,
Bind us together
With cords that cannot be broken
Bind us together, Lord,
Bind us together, Lord
Bind us together with love."

Me and Peet

"I've come to a decision...Peet's is my new favorite spot."

Saying this, somehow, I felt like I was expressing one of those first-day-of-the-rest-of-my-life moments, but Jess just looked at me like, "Well, good for you, I think. I don't get it, but good for you."

With that one statement, what I was really trying to say was, "I love you and your desire to be a pseudo-hippie, but I need more calm in my life than your crazy coffee shop can provide. I need more peace than all the junior highers that hang out there could possibly possess. And, most of all, I need to feel myself think--even though nothing deep will reverberate back. In fact, I know nothing I think or write is particularly brilliant, and I'm willing to recognize that, even shout it from the rooftops with open arms lifted to the sky if necessary. Nevertheless, I'm apologizing for the fact that I think I know a little bit more of who I am today, and that person doesn't care for trashy couches, marijuana smoke, and people who sneeze and don't wash their hands. And I know that's not the person you think you know, so I'm sorry. Not that there aren't a million other things about me that won't change, but as much as I like places where everybody knows your name, I like establishments with a little order better. Does that make me a terrible person? Judgmental? Flaky, even? Anyway, thanks for listening, and I hope this doesn't change our relationship too much because I genuinely enjoy your company."

Why she needed to know any of that is still beyond my comprehension. We both knew that it didn't matter where I bought my coffee, why I cared to change venues, or whether there was fault to place, but I needed closure. Coffee closure.

I suppose this was all part of my new life mantra--Conquer the "I can'ts." You hear these little anecdotes about people who cut the word "can't" out of their dictionary or refuse to allow their children to say it. Well I don't utter the word much but I think it all the time. And it's the minuscule ideas that get shot down first.

Just like when I used to play Oregon Trails and the rabbits were easier for me to kill than the buffalo. I was the fourth grade class rabbit-hunting hero, but that's all I was good for. Nowadays my buffaloes are grandiose hopes like attending seminary and organizing a prayer sanctuary, while my rabbits are baby's breaths of dreams like sewing a T-shirt and finishing song lyrics.

When did this shift happen? The shift from knowing I was good at some things but still willing to conquer the world to reminding myself that I am only good at what I know. I'm only 23, for Peet's sake! That's right, Peet, you're going to have to live with me now too because I'm leaving the "I can'ts" behind--all the way down to my coffee shop preferences, whether you like it or not. So there!

Kids Say the Darnedest Things

Sophie Steele came racing into the copy room yesterday with her little sister, Sage, right behind her to give me the most important news of the day.

"You're not fired!"

"What, Soph? Why not?"

"Because you have the cah-raaaaaaziest chair in the office. If you're chair doesn't spin fast you're fired, but yours has the plastic mat, so it flies EVERYWHERE!" Short pause, "We've tested every chair, and we've decided you get a raise."

Sophie ran out before I even had a chance to thank her, but five-year-old Sage decided to clarify between breaths of excitement.

"'Cause *GASP* 'cause when your chair spins *GASP* it spins fast *GASP* really *GASP* fast really *GASP* And then *GASP* and then, we give you a p'omotion!"

They both then scampered around the corner to interrupt a staff meeting and tell their mom she was fired.