Rambling Thoughts

"Ryan, I've come to put myself under your temporary authority."

His whole face lit up. I found it necessary to reiterate, "under your temporary authority, Ryan. I won't help you spray-paint Zach's car."

I arrived at church at 8:30 AM this morning because I am on the sound crew, and that is the hour at which setup occurs. Tom sent me to help Ryan, who is both younger and taller than I (a state of affairs which seems to be my lot in life). We happily set up mike stands and made little puddles of black cable all over the stage whilst I regaled him with stories of Friday night's escapades (the Pillowfight to End All Pillowfights). Ryan is in my caregroup, so he appreciates these things.

"Christy, why are you barefoot?"

"I can't work on the stage in those! Goodness!" It's true, too. I try to procure the most sensible shoes that I can find, but, fashion being what it is, I could hardly perform my sound crew duties in the white blocky sandals that went with my khakhis.

We chatted of this and that, compared Scripture passages, went to help at the Resource Center, etc. Then I trotted over to stand by Tom at the sound board, and somehow we got onto the subject of coffee mugs from the 70's. PHC students began to arrive. Somewhere in the midst, I was asked to fill in for a missing Children's Ministry worker. It meant missing the sermon, but I was already "on duty" to help with sound setup and takedown, so...

Wow. Culture shock.

I did five years of childrens' ministry in high school. In fact, four of them were spent in heavy face-paint as a clown and skit-writer, doing silly dances and marching endlessly around the imaginary walls of Jericho. Believe it or not. However, I had completely forgotten what four-year-olds are like.

"Have you seen The Incredibles?"

"Yes, I have." I said, pleased to be "in on it." That was before I discovered that, to them, it made absolutely no difference whether I said "yes" or "no."

"We have a cat; it throws up on the carpet." Mariah, four years old, brown-eyed and pink-cheeked, informed me of this with great solemnity. At once there was a chorus of small voices.

"We have a cat!"

"We had a cat, but it died!"

"My mommy doesn't like pets!"

"We have a puppy."

"Cows go 'moo!'"

Every child instantly had to assert themselves on the "pet issue," but it didn't seem to make a lick of difference whether they were "for" or "agin" domesticated members of the animal kingdom.

"My daddy's middle name is Moon!"

"Really?" I began to respond. "That's interes--"

Too late. We were on another topic. "Have you seen The Princess and the Bride?"

"You mean The Princess Bride?"

"No! The Princess AND the Bride!"

I had to confess that I had not, but it didn't matter at all. They moved on to another subject without pause or comment. They didn't give me their analysis of the movie, Platonic, Nietzschian, or otherwise. They didn't encourage me to see it. They didn't even describe it!

"I hate this gluestick!"

"'Hate' is a strong word, sweetheart." I said, automatically.

"In my house we say 'I don't prefer.'" The little Higgins girl chimed in, opening her blue eyes very wide.

Off they went, all telling one another what their family constitutions had mandated on the subject. Yet there was no analysis, no discussion, no comparison, not even an opinion expressed! I, used to college and the ways of my peers, was frankly astonished.

Later, holding Amber in my lap during storytime, I had another "I forgot all about this" moment. Small children have no conception of personal space. I saw one experimentally squeeze another's face, while one little girl took a fistful of her neighbor's hair, and began to twirl it into a bun. It was so casual, the way they did this, as if they could not imagine that someone else's body was not their plaything.

I enjoyed them immensely. I loved cuddling them and explaining their crafts and answering their questions and asking my own. I liked playing legos and talking "grown up" with the ten-year-old boy who was helping out. After all, I grew up minding babies; I've been a veteran babysitter since the age of 12. Nevertheless, I had forgotten the simple and mind-bendingly illogical pleasures of children.

I should reinvolve myself in Children's Ministry when I get home. Small children are too much fun to miss.

Longaevi, however...

"Well, Musa?"

I sighed. "Paradoxus, why must you all come to dinner?"

"We're supposed to look after you! Besides, we need airing. We're getting fractious!"

Posy, at least, looked fractious. She reminded me of little Michelle in children's ministry. "All right, Paradoxus."

Have you ever seen seven Longaevi light up all at once? Ay-yi-yi...

I lost the three youngest on my way up to dinner, actually. Posy, Deton, and Polly all opted for the gazebo as a better playspace than the Dining Hall, and I can't blame them. Of the others, Simile and Paradoxus rode on my shoulders, and Litotes became entranced by the old newspapers on the dias as soon as we got in. I had to rip him away from them much later, with soothing promises that he could come back and read some night while I studied up at Founders.

Thus, by the time I had gotten my dinner--which was only an apple, but for once they didn't scold--and seated myself with the sophomores, only Simile and Paradoxus remained to hear the dinner conversation.

And what a doozy it was.

First I had David C. on the subject of free verse. His observations were quite good, I thought. He came to essentially the same conclusions, without ever having been in a Poetry class, that I espoused at the end of four months with Dr. Hake on the subject, and a ten-page paper to boot. Unfortunately, this discussion flowed from what Mama calls "That Llama Movie"--in other words, from the ridiculous to the sublime--and quickly descended back into the depths. Jonathan (not Kanary; another one) began on Jane Austen.

I really cannot stand Jonathan on the subject of Jane Austen. Not only does he forget the names of the main characters, but he criticizes them, and accuses Jane Austen of creating a one-dimension character (as if any of her characters are ever one-dimensional!) in Mr. Woodhouse.

Now, I know perfectly well that people love to tease me because I am fun to tease. I have been told on many occasions that I "react" splendidly. However, how could I help reacting to such blatant, such hyperbolic, such uninformed and inaccurate slander of JANE AUSTEN?!?!

Pardon... my heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, and I must pause til it return to me...

Paradoxus chuckled throughout. I could feel his wings trembling with suppressed laughter against my cheek. It grew so bad that I had to put him under the chair to recover himself. He really is worse than Mike and Davy put together. Simile was outraged on my behalf, bless her. At last, we managed to direct the conversation into safer waters--and you will know how bad it was when I tell you that "safer waters" in this case meant "Nietzsche."

I wandered back through the blue twilight, and paused beside the pond to call my Longaevi from their games. While waiting, I had leisure to stare off into the evening sky and think of next semester. Brittainy and I shall room together in the space that belongs now to Sarah Lewis. I'm glad; I shall miss Sarah so much, and being in her room will be something like having a few wisps of her aura about. The Longaevi will be comfortable there; how could they help it, in the former abode of a High Queen? And it has a long lovely view down to the pond, tucked away as it is under the eaves of Dorm 2. I have so missed Lake Bob this past semester. I must be always near water, near enough to watch the sun and breezes caress it, spank it, laugh at it or thrill it. Oh, how I miss the sea...! How glad I am that I shall soon be back in my beloved North, where it is cool and green and silver and blue and flaming red in the autumn!

All these thoughts I had, waiting for Paradoxus and Simile and Litotes to collect their younger siblings. I laughed to myself, for I have come full circle. I was in Dorm 2 in my freshman year, and then in Dorm 1 (unwillingly) until the end of last semester, and I have been in Dorm 3 all this semester, and shall be in Dorm 2 all next year. Brittainy and I intend to carry on the tradition of Sarah's room: we want it to be a place of refuge for girls, where they can come and be ministered to, where we can give comfort and encouragement and--yes, when necessary--observations and correction.

I was informed at dinner, by a sophomore girl whom I barely know, that I am "one of the nice upperclassmen." It encouraged me greatly, for I have spent the past year learning to pour myself out without thought of return, without holding back out of pride or self-centeredness or fear of getting hurt--with very impoerfect success. I've always been so afraid of pain in relationships, but by the end of last semester I learned, I think, this truth:

If it's real, it will eventually hurt. That's only a matter of time. But if it's real, then you are actually obeying God's command, and following Christ's example, of sacrificial love.

And that's worth anything, because it is for my Beloved. The rest is just learning to trust. The more I trust God, the less it hurts. Oh, I still feel. I still ache. I hurt more all the time, as I become more sensitive to the pain of others, because I love them. But I'm not wounded. I am not undone. I am firmly rooted in Christ, and able to give more and more. That, I think, is the nature of love: you give more largely and profoundly the longer and deeper you do it. But you have to do it. I never wanted to; I ran from it for most of my life. But I cannot escape 1 John. How can I say I love my Father if I will not love my brother? And love, my dear... love is a very practical verb. It isn't the sort of thing that you can do "sometimes" or "when you feel like it." It's a state of soul, a disposition, a posture and attitude.

My Lord, I am a lamp in which your Spirit dwells. May the walls of this lamp--my soul--grow ever thinner, that you may blaze forth and consume in your tender love all who meet with me. Sum tua serva. Duc me ut optas.

No matter where I begin, I always end by talking to you, Lord.

I'm glad.

OH! I left Chiasmus in the Dining Hall! He's probably arranged all the goldfish to spell ABCBA!

Pardon me while I go rescue my recalcitrant redhead from the clutches of the kitchen gods, who are, no doubt, justly wrathful...