When my friend Winifred got married some years back, she and all us bridesmaids went to a mani/pedi place, so our fingers and toes could be painted the requisite Bride Approved color (not that it mattered, since she made us wear hose during the wedding. HOSE! IN OPEN TOED SANDALS! IN ALABAMA IN JULY! She hated us THAT MUCH! Ha ha ha.)
It was actually my first time at a mani/pedi place, as I consider that kind of thing a cost that takes away from the important things like rent, gas, and alcohol. So I had no idea that a foot and calf rub was also included with the price of admission. I promptly caught a fit of the Uncomfortables, which I covered with a gigglathon, and no, we can’t take Amy The Writer anywhere.
But yeah, I found it uncomfortable, that someone was kneeling in front of me, in a subservient pose, washing my feet. Dunno why. Guess I couldn’t handle the authority position of it all, like this issue of Cosmo and the article “15 Things To Turn Your Man On” is my royal scepter, and I’m saying Sand those toenails down, you servant! Sand ‘em DOWN!
So when my church announced about a month ago that they were gonna be staffing a footwashing booth for a Homeless Expo Day, I knew I had to do it.
It was Hollywood’s “Project Y!MBY Connect Day.” This essentially is an event for the homeless population of Los Angeles, held at the Music Box Theater in Hollywood. The homeless can get social services and referrals, everything from groceries to driver’s licenses, to getting your feet washed via my church’s booth. The idea of footwashing ANYONE’s feet, much less a homeless person's, filled me with the heebie jeebies, so of course I have to challenge my fear and go for it.
And yet, if it really was God putting a bug in my ear, there sure were a lot of obstacles to overcome to get there. For one thing, the event was being held on a Thursday, from 7am to 2pm. During work hours, and I can’t take off work yet, I haven’t accrued any vacation time. So the most I could do would be to get there at 6am and help them set up, then leave at 8am and hope that enough homeless people came through to where I could sufficiently challenge my fear and see what came out of it.
So I do. I showed up at 6am, and I was the very first person there from my church. I helped set up the booth, and I cut towels. I cut towels for close to an hour, resizing big body towels down to hand towels, just right for drying feet.
They’re expecting maybe 200 to 300 people, but something close to twice that are already lining the block outside the theater. And that’s just at the opening.
When they finally let the doors open, the homeless population is going to the more useful booth, like the social security one, where they can get social security cards. So by the time I have to leave at 8am, there’s exactly one homeless person at our footwashing booth, and she’s already been pounced on by something like five volunteers Footwashing!? Footwashing!? I’ll wash yer feet!
So I got pictures instead.
I cut towels. I feel like Baby in “Dirty Dancing. “I carried a watermelon.” Maybe next year. Maybe.
So I don’t really bother with the questions of “Why God would allow this to happen.” I moved on from asking questions you’ll never get sufficient answers to a long time ago.
Why God would allow a child to be born, live for three years, and spend his ending moment in severe pain is not a question I’m going to ask, there will never be a sufficient answer. I know a lot of well meaning Christians would point out meaningfully that said child brought a lot of joy to his parents, his sister and inspired a lot of people. Is that worth the pain he went through? Not a question I’m going to ask, there will never be a sufficient answer.
I’m thinking the older you get, the less you’ll ever get sufficient answers to the Why questions you have. Why did that happen to Hudson? Why didn’t my script sell? Why is it triple digit temperatures?
On Wednesday night, in between the few tears I shed, I found myself not asking Why questions, but thinking about Dalton instead. There was a conversation I had with Dalton a few months before he passed. It sounded like a rehearsed moment that he had prepped and ready to go anytime someone asked him how was his treatment going, but I didn’t mind if he didn’t mind repeating it for the umpteenth time.
And here’s the part where my memory gets all weird, and I even called Tricia to try and confirm some details, and she was rightfully all like, “Huh?” But basically, what I remember is Dalton saying something like how he knew he was supposed to be gracious in his suffering, but he was still thinking, “Um, really would rather not.” Tricia rightly says she doubts Dalton would have thought he was supposed to be gracious in his suffering. Nobody thinks they’re supposed to be gracious in their suffering. Except me, in my dealings with Roomie Jekyll and Roomie Heckle. Heh.
The point being is that I know I heard Dalton say “Um, really would rather not” and it was a joking response to a typical Christianese theme of how we should bear our burdens and not complain about them, and it made both of us laugh, because we were both sarcastic people that had the same response to Happy Chipper Christians a lot of the time.
Then a more recent memory dropped in my head, back to this past New Year’s Eve. There were a few events that I hopscotched around to, and one of them was to Tricia’s house, where she was hosting a party. We all laughed, drank, walked down the street to look at the Rose Bowl Parade floats. And at a certain moment, I was sitting on the couch with Simon, the best dog ever, and Tricia had broken the news to little Iain that it was bedtime. Little Iain didn’t wanna go to bed, it wasn’t even midnight, there were still more Patron shots to do, but Tricia wouldn’t hear any of it, and marched him up the stairs.
To Iain’s credit, he didn’t pitch a fit, but trudged up the stairs, with Tricia behind him, and said, “But Momma, I’m not tired” over and over again in a voice that sounded exactly like Michael Darling in Disney’s Peter Pan: Momma, the buried treasure.
“But Momma, I’m not tired.” Iain says, as he climbs the stairs. “I know, honey,” Tricia says, climbing up after him, “I know.”
I feel like that all the time. I think we all do.
But God, I don’t wanna do this. I know, honey, I know. But God, I don’t wanna do this. I know, honey, I know. But God, I don’t wanna do this. I know, honey, I know.
And we keep going up the stairs, God right behind us. Always there, always following as we march on to do things we don’t wanna do. The calm quiet presence behind us.
Like my favorite line from C.S. Lewis’ “A Grief Observed” “When I lay these questions before God I get no answer. But a rather special sort of ‘No answer.’ It is not the locked door. It is more like a silent, certainly not uncompassionate gaze. As though He shook His head not in refusal but waiving the question. Like, ‘Peace, child; you don’t understand.’”
Please pray for his family: Jamie, Oliver, his sister Abella. They don't really know me, and I only met them once, they wouldn't remember me, and who cares what else I say now.
This time of year brings out the Japanese Irises in full force. It's amazing how quick they come out, too. Thursday night, they weren't out, the next day, the whole fleet burst open to say hi.
They don't last too long either, and Roomie Jekyll takes particular pleasure in flicking off the dead buds, but the gestation period is about three weeks or so.
I can tell I'm getting older, because I'm noticing and appreciating Old People stuff more. Like the texture of petals. They way they look, the way they feel.
I'm off to go shotgun a beer now. I'm YOUNG, dammit!
Right before Memorial Day I tried donating blood again for little Hudson with the brain tumor. He’s having an extremely rough go of it, and I wanted to help. It’s highly amusing to me that I get so jazzed about the possibility of needles, considering my dread fear of them. It’s not as though I’d be sticking needles in my arm for no reason. I’d only do it if it could help somebody.
So I sent out the email to my circle of friends asking for iron enriched well wishes, ate as big of a lunch as my stomach could muster, even including PROCESSED SUGAR, which is something I’ve been skipping lately and toodled off to Children’s Hospital. “Oh, Hudson needs blood again?” The nurse asks me as she’s looking at my paperwork. “He always needs blood is my understanding.” I say.
And off I go to face down the Red Machine O’ Hemoglobin DOOM, confident that if little Hudson is in dire need, than God’s gonna PUMP (clap) me up full o’ iron so I can bleed for the little guy.
And the machine comes back at 10.6. 12.5 is passing. Sigh. “Can we do it again?” I ask the technician, explaining that normally, it’s better to stick my arm rather than my fingers, as last time, we discovered something happens in my veins between the elbow and the fingers that waters the blood down. I’d like to think the forearm veins are doing tequila shots 24/7, ho ho ho.
So the techie sticks my arm and runs it through. 9.9. We’re going DOWN? We’re going the wrong way! We’re going the wrong way at the wrong point on the arm! The fingers are the ones having the party! No fair!
The techie runs another sample through the other machine. Now it’s 9.6. “That can’t be right,” I say, “Wouldn’t I be dead with those numbers?”
No, apparently I can walk and talk and be bitter with those numbers, but I can’t give blood. Sigh. They still give me the cookies and the orange juice, despite my protests that I don’t deserve them. “But you tried!” they tell me, “And you really wanted to do it! We don’t see a lot of that here.”
It’s very rare that you get rewarded for trying AND failing. But Children’s Hospital in Los Angeles will give you a cookie. They will even give you two, but I only took one.
So I grumble my way home and send out an update to my circle saying I’m an iron loser, whatever.
And then I get an email from Nadine. Nadine thinks it’s really cool that I give specifically for someone. Nadine has that very desirable blood type of O negative, and she wants to give blood to Hudson, even though she’s never met him.
So a few weeks later, Nadine is off to Children’s Hospital, where not only does she beat the Red Machine O’ Hemoglobin DOOM with flying colors, she skips the bloodletting and goes directly to the apheresis machine and does the TWO HOUR platelets process! I’m so jealous! I’ve been working up the nerve to do that one, but I’m a chickenshit, and don’t think I could handle the needle being in my arm for two hours.
But Nadine is a rock star, and did platelets for Hudson, a little boy she doesn’t even know. She gives me all the credit for introducing her to the concept of direct donations, and to Hudson in particular. But I give her credit for doing all that for someone she doesn’t even know.
I haven’t understood why my body has decided to turn down this Iron Depleted Route, which it’s basically done since last year, when there’s an actual need for me to give. You could form the argument that maybe I wasn’t supposed to give, I was supposed to be the signpost for OTHER people to give. Sure, that sounds like something a good little Christian would say.
I’ve never liked being an example. I’ve never liked people looking at me like I was some kind of superstar whatever. Those of you who know me know I can’t stand compliments. At least, not to my face. You can email them to me all the time, ha ha ha.
I guess the reason why is that if everyone thinks you’re great, you’re just gonna disappoint them the next time you f up. Which for me is every other minute, HA!
If everyone thinks I’m great, then I don’t get to be cranky. Maybe that’s what it is. I LIVE by my crankiness, people. Don’t make me give it up.
Anyhow, Nadine, who I’ve never known to be cranky, is a rock star.
Hey, is anyone else getting as sick of my Bible chronicling adventures as I am? Those blog entries aren’t really food for thought, nor are they particularly well written.
Methinks we need a break. And since I finally have a new camera to replace the one that was stolen by a yahoo Floridian tourist, I shall celebrate by doing one of those 12 in 12 thingies I have vaguely read about on other people’s blogs. The idea is that you take 12 pictures in 12 hours, one each hour, to document your day. This is how my Saturday went: (Warning! The spacing is all wonky! Resize your computer screen as much as possible and it will still be wonky! But you get the general idea!)
8:00am hour – I wake up to Spike. I either wake up to Spike or to the ceiling. I much prefer Spike.
9:00am hour – I see these flowers when I walk to and from the gym. I dig them because of the variety of colors. Check out that detail using the macro function! My camera’s better than I thought.
10am hour – Just another scintillating daily devotional, this time from Ezekiel 27: 1 – 25. Talking about all of Tyre’s glory as a trading country. I am bored. I don’t care if all Scripture is God breathed, and we need to understand how great a nation Tyre was to appreciate its upcoming destruction by God. I’m bored, and I want to get to the New Testament already, which, at this pace, won’t be happening for another two months.
11am hour – The devotional has so thoroughly bored me that I go back to bed. Well, that, and the fact that the Step and Sculpt teacher at the gym was merciless this morning. Me achey already.
12pm hour – The tiny sushi place on La Brea that I like also features strange smoothies.
1pm hour – watching George Romero’s Diary Of The Dead. I give Blair Witch Project a pass. I give Cloverfield a pass. But here, when you’ve got TWO film school students “filming” their desperate attempt to survive a zombie apocalypse, you do NOT get a pass to stand there and film your friend impaling a zombie with an IV pole, PUT THE CAMERA DOWN AND HELP HIM, FOR F’S SAKE! What an idiotic movie, puffy with laughable self importance.
2pm hour – oh, okay, fine, NOW I’m settling down to write. I handwrite my script revisions, and it can get messy, but it all makes sense to me.
3pm hour – When I need small breaks from brainstorming, I play Trouble, my guitar. I knew from the beginning that the first song I ever learned to play would probably be the only one I’d ever remember. Which is true. So if you ever need a chick to kinda play > Freedy Johnston’s “Bad Reputation,” I’m your chickadee.
4pm hour – Surprisingly, generic cereal is rather tasty (and less expensive!)
5pm hour – reading for a break. The Sookie Stackhouse series isn’t really well written, and it’s a little ridiculous how every vampire, werewhatever, and other assorted supernatural folk that Sookie comes into contact with is breathtakingly beautiful and always falls for Sookie, but whatever. Interestingly enough, I don’t have a problem that she’s a telepath, but could there EVER be a vampire she finds attractive who doesn’t like her?
6pm hour – driving to do box office for my theater company’s show. Wow, this camera doesn’t miss a thing, huh. Check out all that dust. Who has time to clean their car, right?
7pm hour – the coffeehouse only looks empty. But they make a tasty vanilla chai latte. I LURVE vanilla chai lattes.
8pm hour – While the show is going on upstairs, I guard the lobby, work some more on my script, and this is my view.
Not terribly exciting, I know. But better than summarizing Ezekiel. Because I am NOT doing that.
I decided I'd summarize the book of Jeremiah. I had a nagging feeling that I was missing something. So I read, and re-read, and cross referenced between two Bibles and a few websites, and here’s what I came up with:
Jeremiah’s chillin’ in a tiny town called Anathoth. God shows up and says, ‘Yo, Jeremiah, guess what!? I’m calling you to be a prophet! You’s a lucky boy, you sure is.”
“Um, thanks God, but um, er, uh, I don’t know what to say. (See?)”
“Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing, Jeremiah, I’ll tell you what to say! You won’t even need a brother, like Moses. I’ll put the words right on your lips. You’re gonna uproot and tear down and destroy and overthrow, and once all that is done, to built and plant.”
“No kidding. Can I take a pass?”
“Nope. And to make things extra fun, when you write all this stuff down years later, the editors aren’t gonna put ANYTHING in a logical chronological order! Won’t that be awesome!? So in 2008, certain writers named Amy are gonna tear their hair out having to flip back and forth like a Biblical Choose Your Own Adventure.”
“A Biblical what?”
“Never mind.”
So Jeremiah goes to prophesy. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. (deep breath) Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Turn away from your idols and go back to the Lord or else He’s gonna destroy you.
Jeremiah then goes to stand at the temple gate to bug people who go in to worship at the temple.
“You’re worshipping the wrong thing. You think God’s in the temple and if you get inside the temple, it’s Home Base during the world’s biggest game of hide and seek and nothing bad will ever happen to Judah. The only way you’re gonna feel security is if you put your faith in God, not a temple. God’s bigger than a temple.”
The priests and prophets get pissed and wanna kill him. Well, first they wanna hang him, then they’ll kill him. Then they wanna stomp him, then tattoo him, then hang him, then kill him. (Watch the clip and pretend Pee Wee is Jeremiah, and the scary bikers are the priests and prophets, and “I’m trying to use the PHONE!” is the call from God.) But some of the elders and Ahikam say, nah, let’s let him go , so they do, but say he can’t come inside the temple again.
No problem, Jeremiah obviously doesn’t need a temple to say what he has to say. So he gets his buddy Baruch to take dictation on a scroll: “Gloom and Doom is spelled G-L-O-O-M A-N-D D-O-O-M. Exclamation point, exclamation point, exclamation point.”
Baruch goes to the temple to read it to the officials. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom.
The officials say, hmmmm, okay, we’ll take it from here. So they read the scroll to the King, who proceeds to cut off the scroll as they’re reading it and burn it. Scroll? What scroll? I don’t see a scroll. Jeremiah writes another, longer scroll.
Jeremiah occasionally gets arrested from time to time, and every now and then, he complains to God YOU WANNA GIVE ME SOMETHING ELSE TO SAY ALREADY!? I DON’T THINK GLOOM AND DOOM IS GETTING THROUGH TO THEM!
Or
GEEZE God! Why do wicked people get to win!? That aint no fair, it aint.
Or
Waaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh, this sucks, God! You want me to preach Gloom And Doom, but you won’t let me pray for mercy! Why am I doing this!?
God answers Jeremiah directly, whoops, wait, this is God we’re talking about, no, He completely sidesteps the issue and says Dude, forget fair. What you REALLY need is patience. A lot of it. ‘Cause guess what’s coming? Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom. Gloom and doom.
Meanwhile, there’s an internal revolt in the army of the Bad Guy (King Nebuchadnezzar) giving people hope that the Bad Guy might go away. God sends Jeremiah to say nope, sorry, and to make sure Jeremiah gets the people’s attention, God has Jeremiah put on an ox harness. Look at me! I’m in a yoke! Like you’re in a yoke! The Yoke O’ SIN! But there’s also a false prophet Hananiah. If Jeremiah’s message is Gloom And Doom, Hananiah’s message is Not So Fast, Help Is Coming In, Um, Well, Let’s See, About Two Years! Jeremiah says If you’ve got two people saying they’re telling the truth, listen to the one you don’t wanna hear. Prepare for the worst, and you’ll never be disappointed. Hananiah gets fed up and breaks Jeremiah’s Yoke O’ Sin. See! I’m telling the truth! Jeremiah says, oh boy, you shouldn’t have done that, God’s gonna kill you this year. And so he did, Hananiah dies two months later.
Now that Jeremiah had burst the bubble of the people in Jerusalem, he turned to the Jews living in exile in Babylon. Hey, guess what!? You’re not coming home anytime soon! So build homes and settle down, ‘cause you’re in it for the long run, like seventy years or so!
But hey, anyone tired of the gloom and doom stuff? Need a break!? Lemme give you Chapters 29 – 31! In them is a tasty verse that a lot of modern day folk in 2008 and beyond will cling to: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” (Ch. 29 verse 11) Isn’t that a nifty life raft of a verse to hang on to!? It’s so cool that most people don’t notice the verse that comes right after it, “Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you,” declares the Lord, “and will bring you back from captivity. I will gather you from all the nations and places where I have banished you, “declares the Lord, “and will bring you back to the place from which I carried you into exile.” (Ch. 29 verse 12 – 14) Meaning you gotta seek me, and learn about me, and write book reports on Jeremiah to get to know me, and maybe then I’ll be found by you, though really, getting to know me is a bit of a life’s work.
The Bad Guys take over, Jerusalem falls, and Jeremiah is captured. The Babylonians recognize him as hey, aren’t you the prophet who said we were gonna conquer Jerusalem?! You were right! Kudos to you, buddy! Nebuzaradan, commander of the imperial guard, tells Jeremiah to go hang out with Gedaliah, who’s been put in charge of the Jews who’ve been left behind in Jerusalem. Gedaliah gets a warning that a guy named Ishmael is coming to kill him. Oh no he’s not. Oh yes he is, and Gedaliah dies. So there. The Jews now look to a guy named Johanan to lead them, and they ask Jeremiah what they should do. Jeremiah says we should stay. Johanan and the people promptly decide we should go. And off they go to Egypt. Jeremiah travels with them, because if there’s anything we’ve learned about the guy so far, it’s that he’s a glutton for punishment, and Jeremiah ends up dying in Egypt. The end.
Now, did I get anything out of it, now that I’ve been back and forth through it multiple times?
Psalms tried my patience. Isaiah tried my patience. And after struggling for two weeks to get through Jeremiah, a book I initially thought would be fun to read, in so much that there should be huge parts I can identify with, I’m ready to drop kick most of the Old Testament into my backyard, where it can rot with the shingles falling off the garage roof.
Seriously, it’s like I GET IT! I GET IT! GOD’S GONNA COME DOWN AND KICK ISRAEL AND JUDAH’S ASS! WOE UNTO YOU IF YOU DON’T BEHAVE YOURSELF AND STOP WORSHIPPING OTHER IDOLS!
I seriously think that, yoke around his neck be damned, the people of Jerusalem just tuned Jeremiah out after awhile, because it’s 52 chapters of the same monotony. Do you know that the phrase “Woman in labor” appears NINE times in Jeremiah? That’s more than any other book in the Bible. You know how you can trick your head into repeating a word over and over again until it becomes this strange thing from an alien language? Like watermelon? Watch:
What is this watermelon you speak of? “Woman in labor”? She lifts heavy bricks?
No, no, I know, it’s “Watermelon in labor”!!!
Jeremiah 4 verse31: I hear a cry as of a watermelon in labor, a groan as of one bearing her first child— the cry of the Daughter of Zion gasping for breath, stretching out her hands and saying, "Alas! I am fainting; my life is given over to murderers."
Jeremiah 6:23-25 23 They are armed with bow and spear; they are cruel and show no mercy. They sound like the roaring sea as they ride on their horses; they come like men in battle formation to attack you, O Daughter of Zion." 24 We have heard reports about them, and our hands hang limp. Anguish has gripped us, pain like that of a watermelon in labor.
Jeremiah 13:20-22 20 Lift up your eyes and see those who are coming from the north. Where is the flock that was entrusted to you, the sheep of which you boasted? 21 What will you say when the LORD sets over you those you cultivated as your special allies? Will not pain grip you like that of a watermelon in labor?
Heh.
I’m not giving up yet, I’m gonna go look up other supplemental readings to make sense of the book. But it’s kinda whacked that I can’t get it the first time around, cross referencing between two Bibles and all.
But I’m persistent. Or stubborn. I demand this book make sense to me!
I work for two bosses at the Miniature Golf Network, and they have their quirks and fun bipolar days where one of them yells at me if I dare say “Mr. Smith is on line 1” when it’s actually “THE ASSISTANT has Mr. Smith on line 1.” Because that just can ruin a person’s LIFE, don’tcha know. It’s on par with finding out a tornado destroyed your double wide, your accountant ran off with your bank account, or your olives are touching your mushrooms on your pizza. RUINED! My life is OVER!
But I recognize #1 – Crazy Bosses are unavoidable in working in the industry and #2 I’ve worked for so many of them that it simply doesn’t faze me anymore (and I get a perverse kick out of giving them my Blank Face. Crazy Bosses want to see you crumple when they’re yelling at you. If you shoot a Blank Face at them, it pisses them off more, hee hee hee.) and #3 – Crazy Bosses are usually crazy because the boss above them is crazy, and it’s Classic Trickle Down Theory. I’m Furious And Angry And I’m Yelling At You. Pass It On. I’m Furious And Angry And I’m Yelling At You. Pass It On. I’m Furious And Angry And I’m Yelling At You. Pass It On.
That is definitely the case here, as my boss’s boss is notorious for being a hateful person who’s unfortunately very good at the job.
And since I do not want anyone to figure out what network I work for, even by saying whether my boss’s boss is a man or a woman, I hereby decree that my boss’s boss, is in fact, a dragon. See?
A dragon who eats kids for lunch at the Goofy Golf in Ft. Walton Beach, Florida. Let’s name it Hornby.
Hornby is a very angry dragon, for reasons no one quite understands why, though there’s snerks here and there that it’s because Hornby has no personal life to speak of (so it has plenty of time to develop monster hits.) So it spews fire and brimstone at my two bosses, who in turn spew fire and brimstone at me.
So I pray for strength, I pray for patience, I pray for the slickest of backs so it all rolls off and doesn’t hang around my head for me to pass along like a psychological STD.
But then it occurred to me that if I truly wanted to be effective with the prayers, that I would actually stop praying for things for myself, and instead pray for Hornby.
So begins the Great Dragon Slayer Experiment, In Where I Attempt To Metaphorically Slay Hornby The Dragon’s Ill Temperament Via Prayer.
The thing that makes me think this thing will work is Hornby’s assistant, Lil’ Buster. I used to feel sorry for Lil’ Buster, because it had Hornby as a boss, and got a daily blast of ire so severe that Lil’ Buster’s hair probably burned off a long time ago.
But then I gradually realized that Lil’ Buster is in fact, a lazy assistant, who would rather get answers to its questions from me, rather than go in and ask Hornby itself (Assistant 101: You Have To Get Your Answers From Your Boss Even If You’re Scared It’ll Yell At You.) Suddenly, I started doing Lil’ Buster’s job for it, and I can’t tolerate people who create more work for me. So I started praying for Lil’ Buster, that Lil’ Buster would grow a brain, grow a spine, grow patience, grow wisdom, grow insight, grow a thicker skin and grow into a better assistant.
Lil’ Buster instead got fired. This week is its last week.
Now, I wasn’t actively praying for something BAD to happen to Lil’ Buster. I was praying for nothing but good things to come Lil’ Buster’s way. I probably could’ve sat back and done nothing, and Lil’ Buster still would’ve been shown the door.
Or maybe God is moving in very mysterious ways.
So now I’m actively praying for Hornby. That its craggy heart would soften, that it would realize what’s important in life, and it’s not the new crop of contestants on Putter Up! I’m praying that Hornby would gain perspective, that Hornby would realize how negatively its actions affect other people. I pray that Hornby is able to pinpoint what exactly makes it happy (assuming it’s not eating the nearest village), and is able to take steps to achieve that Happiness Goal.
I dunno, maybe it’s all a little condescending, or maybe God isn’t fooled at all, and sees the unconscious self servitude behind the prayers and therefore won’t answer them. Though, I really do mean it when I wish for good things to happen to Hornby. Just as long as my definition of Good Things are the same as God’s definition and Hornby’s definition.
But if Hornby goes down in a plane anytime soon, I’ll get a little freaked out.
There’s a guy standing in front of me. He looks like a rocker, he’s got a pierced eyebrow and lip, hunched shoulders squashed into a vintage blue shirt. Skinny black jeans that end in flip flop clad feet. He’s got more product in his hair than I do. I think it’s dyed too, that kind of chunky flat black color.
The fact that we’re both standing together in the communion line amuses and pleases me to no end.
When I was growing up, My Mother The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much wouldn’t let me take communion until I was confirmed in the church. Her view was that there was no point in partaking of a ritual that I didn’t yet understand. I can see both sides to that, (the flip side being that ingraining yourself in a ritual from a very early age makes it less likely that you’ll stop it later. So everyone should start tithing when they’re like, two years old or something.) Once I was confirmed (sixth grade, I think), I didn’t really think communion was cool even though I was finally allowed to do it. I didn’t really think anything about it. Here’s the tray with pieces of bread going down the pew, here’s the tray with grape juice in tiny plastic cups that your dolls could have a tea party with going down the pew.
Since we were Presbyterians we stayed still, and the bread and juice would come to us. The Crazy Koo Koo Church I used to attend out here put a spin on it, where you would hold the plate for the person on your left, as though you were serving them. Then they’d take the plate, and serve the person next to them, and so forth.
There was some point in my church back home where they shifted from bread to some nasty tasting thing. I asked Miss Eunice what it was, she said some kind of unleavened pie crust. I said it’s gross and it brings whole new meaning to the standard phrase “This is my body, take and eat of me.” Miss Eunice said she preferred to think of the volunteers who selflessly volunteered their time to cut the gross tasting unleavened pie crust into tiny tiny parts for everyone to have during communion. Which is why Miss Eunice is going to heaven, and I am not, ho ho ho.
But in my current church, they have pairs of people stationed at the end of the aisles, and you have to go to them. One person holds the plate of pita bread, and you tear off a piece, and shift over to the other person holding the cup of grape juice, dip it and go.
And I kind of dig it. Sure, there’s the hilarious crush of people that flood the aisles as soon as they give the invitation to come on down, and the awkward dance of people maneuvering do I have to go all the way to the end of the line if I’m in the fourth row? Will someone let me cut in front of them? Is that considered less than holy if I do?
But I find myself digging it not because of the Tear and Dip ritual itself. But I connect with the fact that here we all are, a congregation of (two hundred? Three hundred? Is it a holiday weekend?) And we’re all lining up to receive communication. The fact that we’re lining up, that we’re patiently waiting, maneuvering with the apologetic smiles, it’s as physical of a declaration as you can get that yes, I believe in Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. And I’m in a huge line of other people that believe it too. And it runs the gamut from a silver haired grandmother in pearls to Mr. Rocker in front of me. We have sundresses, tattoos winking from the back of necks and shirtsleeves (on both men and women.) khakis, hipster satin vests, and me wearing the same old boring wardrobe as I ever do (jeans, black shirt, black boots.) And we’re all here, believing in Jesus, and waiting our turn.
Mr. Rocker, by the way, was ever so helpful in pointing out where I was when Tulip, Pastor For The Day said in the middle of the sermon, “Is Amy (The Writer) here today? Where is she?” Tulip’s squinting under the lights, searching the crowd for me. Damned if I’m gonna yell out where I am, Tulip’s gonna make me recite Scripture or something. So I raise my hand, and if she can’t see it, oh well. But Mr. Rocker sees it because he’s sitting behind me (yes, he was in front of me during communion, he’s behind me now), so he helpfully yells “OVER HERE!”
Then Tulip announces to the congregation that “Amy (The Writer) told me yesterday that she’s reading through the Bible and she’s up to Jeremiah. We all need to take note from her.”
Oh GAWD. No we don’t. Don’t ever use me as an example, folks. Just because I’m reading the Bible straight through doesn’t mean I’m understanding any of it. I have to make connections to Eeyore, The Smiths, and Friday the 13th Part 2 in order to make it make sense to me. I’m the worst example in the world. Don’t try this at home.
And I was all excited that I had finally gotten out of Isaiah, and into Jeremiah, and then the chronological Bible sent me back to the pancake flipping duo of 2nd Kings and 2nd Chronicles this morning. Great.
Isaiah, oh Isaiah. With your endless chapters of prophesies that all boil down to the same scenario – Israel as the flashy chick who dumps God, then discovers that all the other guys (idols) out there don’t do it for her, and comes back groveling on hands and knees. And God will take her back, but only after rubbing her nose in how badly she treated God. You WHORE, ho ho ho.
Um, you’re putting a slightly negative spin on it, don’tcha think? Because most Happy Chipper Christians read it and praise God for taking back a nation of people who weren’t worthy. That He will always take you back, no matter how hard you far.
Yeah, yeah, but then there’s chapter 47
1 "Go down, sit in the dust, Virgin Daughter of Babylon; sit on the ground without a throne, Daughter of the Babylonians. No more will you be called tender or delicate. 2 Take millstones and grind flour; take off your veil. Lift up your skirts, bare your legs, and wade through the streams. 3 Your nakedness will be exposed and your shame uncovered. I will take vengeance; I will spare no one."
Sigh.
I am never getting out of Isaiah, folks. I’m stuck here until the end of time. I have daydreams of someday reaching the book of Acts, which I’ve always wanted to read, but context is so important to me, which is why the idea of reading the Bible chronologically in the first place was appealing. But here in the wilderness of Isaiah, I’m just dying. Dying in the dust alongside the bared wady legs of the Virgin Daughter of Babylon.
This weekend kicked my ass allergy wise. Housesitting with Ginger Puppy and Basil. Normally, I can handle their fur. But I can’t handle their fur, extreme heat and Griffith Park dust.
So Saturday, I’m cowering in the TV room, trying to watch > To Catch A Thief, deciding that there simply is no one more lovely than Grace Kelly in that first ice blue dress, and dying because my nose is now a raw red mushroom on my face. Ginger Puppy is staring at me but, but, but, I don’t understand! Why don’t you stick your nose on the top of my head and rub my ears like you usually do?! Don’t you love me!? GASP! YOU DON’T LOVE ME! Oh my GAWD! What’d I do!? What’d I DO!? You’ve shunned me like some Virgin Daughter of Babylon.
I’m popping Benedryl, Claritin, Alavert, I’m sleeping every twenty minutes, and waking up when I can’t breathe.
And finally, even though I think it’s stupid and petty, I send up a prayer to God, Dear Father in Heaven, I would really really really like to breathe, pretty pretty pretty please.
And no lie, within ten minutes of shooting that desperate missive up, I CAN breathe.
Now, do we think that’s God unblocking my nasal passages? Do we think that’s coincidental timing, and it really was the massive amount of loratadine finally working?
I guess it’s however you want to call it. And though Sunday was still an I Can’t BREATHE/ Hey, One Nostril Is Better Than None tug of war, the whole weekend is a reminder that God is not a genie, and my prayers aren’t answered instantly. Sometimes it takes ten minutes. Sometimes it takes ten years. But it’s never ever ten seconds.
Everyone cheer for Carlen. , she’s kicking mucho ass on Script Frenzy. Gooooooooooo Carlen! YOU CAN DO IT!!!!!
So in my further travels in reading the whole Bible, I can say I was a little disheartened to get somewhere around Psalm 90, and realize there’s still a good 60 chapters left.
Keener Bible readers than me will groan loudly when I venture to say that the Psalms started to get kinda boring after awhile. They all seemed to follow the same pattern of Praise God! God’s Great! I Was Miserable And Bad Things Were Happened To Me But God Rescued Me! Or Maybe I’m Still Waiting On Him To Rescue Me, But I Know He Will! Yay God! God’s Great! Made me think paradoxically of the Smiths song, “What Difference Does It Make,” especially when it gets to very end of that song:
Oh, I'm too tired I'm so sick and tired And I'm feeling very sick and ill today But I'm still fond of you, oh-ho-oh
Yes, I admit it’s not the best example. But that’s where my head goes.
Then I hit Psalm 105 and 106, which are a handy dandy history lesson for those for us who aren’t reading the Bible in chronological order, and haven’t already read Exodus and Numbers.
But I perked up a bit when the psalmist in 106 namechecked Phinehas in verse 30 and 31. But Phinehas stood up and intervened, and the plague was checked. This was credited to him as righteousness for endless generations to come.
I had forgotten about Phinehas, the grandson of Aaron and a priest of the temple. In Numbers 25, Israelite men start sleeping with Moabite and Midianite women, God tells Moses to kill ‘em all, kill ‘em all, and in the midst of Moses telling his troops to kill ‘em all, kill ‘em all, an Isralite dude named Zimri and a Midiaite woman name Cozbi decide to give a metaphorical finger to God, Moses, and anyone else telling them where they can or can’t have sex, and decide to get busy IN the temple, apparently in front of everyone. Phinehas responds by taking his spear and running it through the couple whilst they were in the middle of whoopiemaking.
To which I thought, Hey! I’ve seen that before!
(okay, first I thought, GROSS.)
But yes, I’m right, I have seen that before. See?
That’s Jeff and Sandra from Friday the 13th part 2. See, you thought the Friday the 13th movies were just a gratuitous slasher series with no redeeming social value, didn’t you? NOOOOOOOOO PEOPLE! YOU’VE GOT IT ALL WRONG!
Director Steve Miner and writer Ron Kurtz are very obviously crafting a biblical metaphor, where killer Jason is a stand in for Phinehas, Sandra is Cozbi, Jeff is Zimri, Camp Crystal Lake is the Jewish Temple of Meeting, Scott, Terry, Vickie, Mark, Ginny, Random Policeman and Crazy Ralph are all sinning Israelites that need to be purged.
This also means that Mrs. Vorhees is God.
I think we all owe Mr. Miner and Mr. Kurtz a big apology for thinking their movies are black holes of plotless gore filled with vapid characters absent of any logic. Because they are clearly much more religious than any of us ever gave them credit for.
My head’s all fuzzy from allergy medication. At least three times today, I’ve caught myself staring off into space and thinking about sleeping. With my eyes open. Just a warning, people.
In my skimmings with the Christian entertainment community, I find it interesting that there seems to be a prevailing persecuted mentality of sorts. Newbies to the city consistently ask me if I’ve ever been discriminated against because I’m a Christian. To which I always reply “Nope. You’re more likely to be discriminated against if you’re a Republican.” (though I find it fascinating that nobody has ever had a co-worker who’s part of that scary scary, no I’m not typing it here religion that certain celebrities jump up and down on Oprah’s couch about.)
And it’s true. Nobody has ever treated me differently because I believe in God. I don’t stand on my desk and preach to everyone going to the break room, but that’s because I believe in God AND I’m not a moron.
It’s kinda weird how the questions always come. Almost as if they’d like to think the reason more Christian entertainment isn’t happening is BECAUSE Christians are thrown to the Dilbert Workplace Lions.
But it’s simply not true. I’ve worked for Christians, Jews, quasi-Buddhists, none of them gave a toss what I was. You could believe in Ceiling Cat and they wouldn’t care as long as you were competent.
I’ve given church recommendations to fellow co-workers in the copy room. I told my boss “Maybe we should pray” when 9/11 was going down (his response was “thanks” and hung up to watch the tv.)
Currently at the Miniature Golf Network, one of my co-workers has a wooden church on her desk counter where everyone sees it when they walk by, and keeps a copy of the Bible by her computer. And another one of my co-workers, counting down the days to her impending nuptials, had a conversation with me last week about how she’s always been able to feel God’s presence. To which I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her senseless, screaming “Tell me the secret! Tell me what you DO!!!”
She says that she makes sure that she takes time out every day to Be Still And Know That I Am God. “Don’t even pray,” she says, “Just sit and listen.”
So I’ve been working on it. Five minutes a day, just sitting and concentrating on God. No prayers, just the discipline of me continuing to focus and refocus on God. And it is a discipline, because my thoughts always want to run and skip in the meadows of When Is Lost Coming Back On, I Need New Workout Shoes, I think The Mist Is Frank Darabont’s Meditation On Faith.
So far, all I’ve gotten is that five minutes goes much faster than I realize. But I think the start of every new endeavor begins pretty inauspiciously for me. So on I go.
But the important part is, I got the idea from a co-worker. In the Entertainment Industry. So there ya go, naysayers. No discrimination here. Go find something else to keep ya down.
You know, if you drink one Starbucks Vanilla Frappucino while on allergy medication, the back of your hands get numb. Interesting. What happens if I drink TWO?
I absolutely love being away from L.A. I mean, I could amend that slightly to I absolutely love being out of my house, as my many dogsitting stints with Basil and Ginger Puppy will attest to (two gigs in April! Yay! Yay! Yay!) Are you dating me? I wanna stay over at your house, because my house has Roomie Heckle and Roomie Jekyll, and I get tired of tripping over them, and we’re having plumbing issues that make the whole house smell like hamster shavings.
But yes, I love getting away from L.A., because well, L.A. is great if you have money and it sucks if you don’t. I’m scraping by, but not enough to love L.A.
So the family wanted me to join them on a trip to Cedar Key, Florida. This would be My Mother, The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much; My Dad, The Great Stoic Wonder; my sister Agatha; her husband, Mr. Agatha, and Bug, my almost six year old niece. My parents picked the spot, as the original choices of St. John and Mexico proved not to work scheduling and money wise.
To go from thinking Caribbean! Woot! To the sleepy town of Cedar Key, where 900 people live, there's a strip of sand about 2 feet wide, and brown water was not quite what I had in mind. However, it was NOT Los Angeles, and that was good enough for me. (and to be perfectly fair, we did spend days at Ft. Walton Beach as well, where the sand was white and water was blue. Don’t look at those two places on the map and ask me why. Just…don’t.)
We had so MUCH family time, my GOODNESS it was a lot. I have learned that Bug cannot keep a secret to save her life, so she is not the best person to have on your team when you’re playing Clue, she is not the best person to watch a repeat of Food Network Challenge: Cake Challenge: Disney Villains with. She misunderstands the reaction of don’t tell me that! to really mean what a clever girl you are to share your knowledge with the world! Please do go on. No really, don’t stop.
We walked to the grocery store. We walked to the bookstore. We walked to the cutest little public library (with free wi-fi!) We walked down the “main strip” of gulfside bars. We took an island (use that word oh so loosely) boat tour where they told us Cedar Key’s two main industries are tourism and clams! Clams! The clamming industry is aces in Cedar Key! The one island we did stop at, where Cedar Key was harvesting the Cedar trees to make pencils in Pennsylvania, was infested with mosquitoes.
And I would have plastered pictures of all this on the blog, but I have learned the hard lesson that the worst place to lose your camera is in Cedar Key. Because even though you absolutely know where you last left it (Seabreeze On The Dock, oh yeah, I’m calling them out) the staff is less than helpful in trying to help you get it back. Even though the service is slow, the staff suddenly is too super busy to answer your queries of “Is there a lost and found?” “Well, everyone here has their own idea of what that is.” “Is the manager here?” “She left to get change.” (the next day) “Is the manager here?” “She left, she’s coming back, but you know, it’s Prom Night, we’ll be real busy.”
Prom Night!? Prom Night at the rockin’ clam industry town of Cedar Key!? Kiddies, whatever you do, DON’T BRING YOUR CAMERA! YOU WILL LOSE IT AND NOBODY THERE WILL GIVE A SHIT!
I am pissed, and not just because of the completely illogical reality that my camera, which I originally paid less than $250 for on Amazon in 2006, is now retailing for over $600 at the same site.
There are two possible options here:
1. A staff member picked it up, took it God knows where, and is blind/deaf/dumb to not hear that a Los Angeleno has left messages with her number to please call her if you have it.
2. A restaurant patron stumbled upon it and thought to themselves, hey! Free camera day for me!!!! Wasn’t mine two seconds ago, it’s mine now! Get me some clams pronto!
Which upsets me, even more than the September Break In at the house. Because that was deliberate, that was a criminal targeting the house. This was a chucklehead who stumbles over something that’s not his and decides to keep it rather than do the right thing of Turn It In, You Moron, It’s Not Yours.
I hope the clam industry is positively thriving in Cedar Key, because the tourism BLOWS.
I’m thinking it’s option number 2. I’m thinking it’s a chucklehead patron, as opposed to the steely I Can’t Help You, Please Leave Me Alone glares of the Seabreeze On The Dock staff.
Let’s pray for the chucklehead, okay? C’mon, it’s supposed to be a God site, we should rally here.
Dear God. Thank you for being Lord of my life. Thank you for allowing me to live in L.A. and pursue my career of being a paid writer for as long as I have. Thank you that I had money to buy a camera. Thank you that I had some great times with that camera for two years. Thank you for the geniuses who came up with digital photography in the first place.
And Lord, I’m not ducking responsibility here. I know it’s my fault that I left the camera. You know me, because You created me, and You were witness to the Let Your Anger Go conversion that happened around 2005, where I stopped losing things because I wasn’t panicked 24/7 like I used to be because I Let My Anger Go. Except this time, I did lose the camera, not because I was angry, but because I was finally relaxing and not paying attention to every detail.
Lord, it appears that a chucklehead in now in possession of my camera. They know it’s not theirs, and yet they’re hanging on to it, though they’re doomed once the battery dies. And though a very large part of me wants You to smite them, curse them, rain down huge heaping gobs of bad luck upon them, the snotty little Good Girl in me says I can’t ask for that. Ugh. Instead, ugh ugh ugh, I pray that you please bless this chucklehead. Rain down huge heaping gobs of blessing upon them. Open the proverbial floodgates, so they’re drowning in love, money, good fortune, and puppydogs. Let them win the lottery. Let them meet their soulmate. Let them bear above average children. Turn their lives around professionally and personally, so that they don’t have to resort to hanging on to things that aren’t theirs. In Jesus’ name, amen, amen, amen.
P.S. Please let me find another camera that I can afford. If You have time. Thanks!
Love, Amy The Writer.
Let us all mourn my camera by looking at the last shot I managed to transfer onto my computer before it slipped through my fingers. Behold: BUTT RUB.
Here I am in Cedar Key Florida with the fam. They say it's a vacation, I'm not so sure. I can say without a doubt that this is the place to be when the zombie apocalypse hits, as it's so remote, and half the structures are on stilts, so you burn the ladders, and the zombies will never be able to get to you.
It's the delicate dance of Amy Time versus Family Time, and making sure enough time is spent in both quadrants. Escape may not be so easy, as there are no movie theaters, maybe one bookstore, or whatever. There's no cell phone service here. But there is free wireless, so that makes things reasonably better.
The town is basically four blocks big, and on the second block is the town's only grocery store, where they sport Butt Rub seasoning. Yep. That's right, I said it. Butt Rub. They SELL Butt Rub. I took a picture of it, but I can't upload the photos. Bwah ha ha ha.
I know a very cool chick named Beatrice. I got her in to audition for Pink Piggy (four of the actors cast were because I got them in the room. So it pays to be a friend o’ mine, but you also want to be a kick ass actor) and she was cast in the room as a slightly deranged karaoke singer, which, if you know Beatrice, is perfect for her, and that’s meant as a big compliment.
In the script, this slightly deranged karaoke singer sings a little ditty called (I used to have the title here, but had to take it down) The lyrics are exactly what you’re thinking they would be from a song with that kind of title, kind of like you bastard, I’m awesome, can’t you tell, I’m having a nervous breakdown right now because you can’t tell, look at how bold I’m being, I’m metaphorically slitting my wrist in front of you in song! Aren’t I cool now? AREN’T I COOL NOW, YOU MOTHERTRUCKER! But I didn’t pay that much attention to the lyrics when I was writing them because I was writing this script while drunk at 2am in 2002, and I was writing just for me, and we were never gonna make this movie anyway.
But six years later, yes we are, and I never got a chance to polish the song, so the individual lines of the verses are mismatched rhythmically, I don’t like the first two lines, and I used to have them posted here, but I had to take 'em down because I value my privacy, sorry.
But what Beatrice ended up doing was taking the song to her stepfather, who wrote an arrangement for it, and then took it to another friend of hers, who had a band, and another friend did a mix of it, and all of the sudden, a CD lands in front of me at a sushi restaurant last night, courtesy of Beatrice.
And the song is f’ing awesome now. It’s got STRINGS. A MANDOLIN. I remember thinking that nobody could really sing that lyric that I had to take down And have it fit in a certain tempo, but Beatrice and her buddies not only figured that part out, they made it sound GREAT. Beatrice wrote in the liner notes Everyone who contributed to this zany thing did so because they found the whole thing funny, and the song oddly charming…and because I told them it was going to be an awesome film.
I’m once again stunned at how things can take a life of their own outside of my original intentions for it. And thank GOD for it, because what I do is just the base coat. Everyone else brings their layers to it and make it much much better.
Beatrice also told me the HI-larious story of her four year old nephew, who was cast in his church’s Easter pageant. (I love those kind of potential train wrecks. My church is too cool to do anything like that, so God bless the Midwest.) “Was he Pontius Pilate? Was he a fleeing apostle? Was he one of the accusers? Was he one of the guards that rolled dice for Jesus’ clothes?” Nope, Four Year Old Nephew was cast as an angel (I think all the four year olds were cast as part of the heavenly host.) but rehearsal went past his bedtime, and he started to throw a fit, so his Mom bundled him up and hauled him out of the church, and Four Year Old Nephew starts screaming, “Nooooooooo! I wanna see Jesus! I WANNA SEE JESUS!!!”
Sorry for the late post, my time really hasn’t been my own lately. Except for yesterday, which was my birthday. I am now officially eight, but I’m telling everyone I’m six. ‘Cause everyone knows six year olds have the most fun, grin grin.
Things are very chaotic over here at The Miniature Golf Network. We’ve got 4 shows on the air, and I’m now working for two people, so my workload has officially grown horns, cloven hooves, and has used me as a couch. And even though our shows are frolicky and silly, the environment is still corporate Dilbert world. And you want to do a good job because you have a good work ethic, even though your product is golf courses through jungle mazes.
But it’s extraordinarily difficult to keep on top of everything, with demanding bosses you get upset if I’m doing something for the other person first over them. So yes, I have made a few mistakes. Yes, I have been yelled at. Yes, I’m wondering what I’m doing here.
Where is God in this situation? Do I call on Him for help? Do I lean on my own understanding and general office skills? I thought I wasn’t supposed to lean on my own understanding. Understanding isn’t the same as skill. If you are a dumbass because you wrote down the wrong number on the phone sheet, God can’t really do anything about it.
Where is God in a Dilbert corporate world? I pray for help, I pray for strength, I pray to not be a dumbass, I pray to feel His presence helping me lift the burden, but all I feel is my own guilt and shame at doing something wrong. What, you think He’s gonna come down with the God wand and somehow magically right everything you’ve gotten wrong? If I’m supposed to go to Him for everything, then am I allowed to expect that He’ll do something about it?
These are the days where it seems impossible that a God we exalt as King, Lord Most High, Creator Of The Universe, la la la, really gives a shit whether my bosses are yelling at me or not. I think that might be the unintentional distancing effect that most hymns have. When we sing “Summer and winter and springtime and harvest. Sun, moon and stars in their courses above. Join with all nature in manifold witness. To Thy great faithfulness, mercy and love” on Great Is The Faithfulness, then you think to yourself, yes, this God has created the seasons, has set the stars in the sky, and you want Him to do what? Get the courier here with the package faster? Because that’s very high on His To Do List? Are you kidding me?
One thing they’ll hammer at you in church 24/7 is the theme that God wants a relationship with you. God wants a relationship with you! You pursue worldly things, and worldly relationships and all God wants is a relationship with you! Set your sights on God, get to know Him, pursue His kingdom and you get fluffy bunnies, Cadbury eggs and everything else!
I don’t have a clue what pursuing a relationship with God means. No no, not true. I do too know what it means. I just don’t think it’s working currently.
Church will tell you that pursuing a relationship with God usually boils down to six or so things. 1. Read the Bible. 2. Pray. 3. Listen. (ideally while being still.) 4. Go to church and listen to what they have to say. 5. Get connected with a small group and discuss what they have to say. 6. Repeat
Yeah, I’m doing all of that. No, I don’t feel like I’m making progress.
I pray, so I’m talking to Him. I read the Bible, to try and understand a tiny tiny fragment of Him (I’m still stuck in 2 Kings and 2 Chronicles, where it’s all about Kings not tearing down the high places of pagan worship, and the successive lines of Kings who do the exact same thing, and Lamb Chop is stuck in my head singing, this is the song that doesn’t end, yes it goes on and on my friend.) I listen for Him ALL the time. I get nothing. No deeper understanding, no response. Just the cold academic calculating of Well, your landlord didn’t hose you on the rent increase so you know…that MUST have been God saving your ass, right?
If God wants the relationship with me, why is all I’m working through is a mountain of secular shit? What does He want me to do? What MORE does He want me to do? What kind of response from Him am I supposed to be looking for?
Oh great, we’re back to the Enough question.
We’re back to the What Do You THINK God’s Response Is Gonna Be Like?
We’re back to the Whatever Response You Think God Should Give Is Just Another Example Of How You Don’t Know Who God Is In The First Place, So Chutes And Ladders Yourself All The Way Back To Square One and Start Over, You Whiny Little Bee-yotch. Read The Bible. Pray. Listen. Go to Church. Go to Small Group. Repeat. Read The Bible. Pray. Listen. Go to Church. Go to Small Group. Repeat. Read The Bible. Pray. Listen. Go to Church. Go to Small Group. Repeat.
If I’m continually getting it wrong, there’s less and less reason to start over again. It gets so HARD to start over again. Whatever.
I think everyone needs to get Lamb Chop’s song stuck in their head. RIGHT NOW.
It was Hollywood’s “Project Y!MBY Connect Day.” This essentially is an event for the homeless population of Los Angeles, held at the Music Box Theater in Hollywood. The homeless can get social services and referrals, everything from groceries to driver’s licenses, to getting your feet washed via my church’s booth. The idea of footwashing ANYONE’s feet, much less a homeless person's, filled me with the heebie jeebies, so of course I have to challenge my fear and go for it.
So I do. I showed up at 6am, and I was the very first person there from my church. I helped set up the booth, and I cut towels. I cut towels for close to an hour, resizing big body towels down to hand towels, just right for drying feet.
When they finally let the doors open, the homeless population is going to the more useful booth, like the social security one, where they can get social security cards. So by the time I have to leave at 8am, there’s exactly one homeless person at our footwashing booth, and she’s already been pounced on by something like five volunteers Footwashing!? Footwashing!? I’ll wash yer feet!
