A Trashy Theology

Following a Garbage Picker God

Some of you will remember my previous post, Garbage Picker God. This post is something of a follow-up to that, composed of edited (and rearranged) excerpts from a spiritual autobiography I had to write for my Spaces of the Heart course with Charles Nienkirchen last winter. I think most people have a compulsive desire to put things right in the world, however they define right and world. My fight has always been in the arena of relationships, with right defined as 'harmoniously interconnected'. The second-born of four siblings, I have often been the mediator in my family, both among siblings, and between siblings and parents. Being the oldest daughter in a family that has since expanded to include two foster siblings and three “other” siblings, I also became something of a counsellor. Peace-making and counselling roles were extended to friendships beginning in elementary, and lead to other positions of trust, such as school peer mediator, camp counsellor, and crisis line counsellor. Much to my surprise, while working as a crisis line counsellor for my practicum I discovered I had a knack for connecting with women and men who were in, currently escaping, or healing from abusive relationships. I am nearly finished a BA in behavioural sciences, which I intend to use for entry into counselling psychology graduate studies. My aim is to one day work as a family counsellor, helping to restore families and individuals who have been damaged by unhealthy relationship patterns. Two activities from my childhood remain salient markers of who I see myself as in God: first, picking up pop-cans and bottles for recycling to save the earth and my parents’ finances; second, recurring nightmares of failure to save vulnerable others, or myself. Three people played into these themes of identity significantly: an elementary school friend, M, my older brother, Nolan, and my youth pastor, Sindy. I met M in grade 5. I was surprised by her offer of friendship. She was a core member of our school’s “cool” girl group, and I had always believed myself to be a sort of geek or outsider to them. My family was lower middle class, average-looking, and Christian. Although never without friends, none of us were ever popular (that I know of). I became M’s protégé: adopted into her group of friends, I did my best to conform to their standards of fashion and social behaviour. However, half way through the year, M became estranged from the rest of the group. One of the other girls “suggested” that I should stop hanging out with her as well. Feeling indignant, and supposing their warning to be spiteful, I told them I could choose my friends for myself, thank you very much. As a reward for my faithfulness, M invited me to a sleep-over that weekend. That night became a turning point in my life, in the worst way. M wanted to play make-believe. I was a very imaginative child, so normally I would have been delighted. However, M wanted to make-believe that I was a John, and she was a prostitute. I should have called my parents and asked to go home right then. But I was too afraid of losing her friendship, so I stayed and submitted. She told me “secrets,” such as what the other kids at school thought about me: garbage-picker, geek, loser, nose-picker, poor. I left feeling dirty and violated. I never told my parents about that part of our sleep-over, and I never hung out with M again, but my view of my self and how others saw me were ruled for years afterwards by the names “others” called me. I began having nightmares of children being sexually and physically abused by adults. I no longer trusted other children to like me and remain my friend if they knew me well. I withdrew deeply into myself, rarely speaking, and maintaining a flat emotional expression around both friends and family members. I rarely invited friends from school home. Unable to cope with my fears of rejection and feelings of helplessness, I retreated into fantasy worlds of my making in which I could be whatever I felt I was not in life: strong, beautiful, rich, powerful. Oddly, I could never imagine myself happy or loved. As the years went by, my fantasy worlds of retreat fell increasingly out of my control, in terms of both content and timing. My character and those she loved would be tortured, raped, and murdered over and over, through most of the day and night. My inability to control my thoughts, especially their sexual content, filled me with shame. I felt like garbage, inside and out. Collecting garbage for recycling, now a humiliating act, became my penance. About the same time my peer relationships went down-hill, my close relationship with my older brother began to crumble as he became inexplicably cruel, looking for ways to hurt my feelings or make me angry. Knowing I felt sensitive about my weight, he used to taunt me by calling me “Santa Clause.” It was an ugly betrayal, since he had always been my fearless hero. In addition, my younger sister followed in his path of unprovoked verbal barbs long after Nolan had repented. But he did repent. In fact, years after we had stopped fighting and I had forgotten we were ever anything other than best friends, he stunned me again. This time, by apologizing with tears in his eyes for “being such a jerk” when we were younger. He is now one of the most conscientious guys I know at respectfully and sincerely telling all kinds of women, including myself, that they are beautiful. Whenever I think of Nolan now, I envision him as he was when we went hiking with a group of people from Epic several summers ago: running (in sandals?) down the very steep and very shaley side of a mountain, tireless and without fear. It was a challenging hike for me to reach even the lower summit, let alone the upper summit Nolan ran up and down without me. But I went because Nolan invited me, challenged me, believed in me. Our deep friendship is a constant reminder to me that God can heal any relationship he is invited into. Sindy was my youth pastor. From the very beginning of her employment, she made it a priority to get to know me on a deep level, and to find ways to affirm beauty, strength, and goodness in me at a time when I frequently felt like garbage. Her personal stories of hurt, sin, and healing gave me courage and permission to more fully express myself with others and with God. Sindy became my friend and spiritual mentor, a relationship that has endured even after our church dissolved. She provided me with my first introduction to the spiritual disciplines, and through them gave me the tools I needed to begin facing my fears of rejection and abandonment. At an evangelism training course she convinced our youth group to attend, she encouraged and supported me in finding the intercessors whose prayers and guidance finally released me from what had become a six-year addiction to fantasy world escapism. For the first time I recognized how my loneliness, fears, low self-esteem, and addictions were interconnected and had been used by Satan against me. Released from those things by a renewed relationship with Christ, I was freed to love others more fully and openly. My last year of high school, after a one month fast from fictional book reading, God revealed to me that I was to become a psychologist so I could help others attain what I had found in my relationship with God, my family, and my youth group. Since beginning my studies in psychology, one of the most poignant moments in my learning came when I began learning about signs, consequences, and treatments of child abuse. I suddenly remembered for the first time in many years my friend M, and realized with shock that she was probably being sexually abused by someone in her family at the time when I knew her. I think of her often now, wondering where she is and who she has become. God only knows, so I ask him to protect her wherever she is. I cannot. I doubt I'd recognize her if I saw her on the street somewhere. I suppose the danger for anyone in a helping vocation is the risk of mistaking yourself for God in others’ lives. I always have to remind myself that God is the healer, and I am just a sign post for other people to him. I have to be careful to be humbly honest with myself, God, and others about what my limits are, because otherwise I become burned out, depressed, disappointed, and resentful of people’s needs. I need to remember to go to God for my own renewal, and to let go of burdens I carry for myself or others, instead of just trying to hide from them by distracting myself with movies, books, music, day-dreams, or endless internet communications. In fact, as my experiences with broken people have increased and I have learned to rely on God in prayer to heal both them and myself, I have come to see myself as a sort of garbage collector. I have always known I had some kind of gift as a mediator or peace-maker: even during my darkest and most lonely years classmates, friends, and family members would come to me with their problems and hurts because they knew I would listen. I was repeatedly stunned, yet honoured by their trust in me. At the same time, I felt overwhelmed by their needs. I was like a garbage collector who didn't know where the dump was. All my own garbage, as well as the garbage given to me by others, simply got piled on me, rather than recycled or disposed of. I think that is why I used to have so many childhood nightmares of people dying or being seriously harmed and finding myself unable to help them. Now I feel like I'm finally learning how to sort through life’s garbage (my own and others’) to look for treasures to redeem, and to truly dump the rest where it belongs- at the foot of the cross. Jesus said, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:28-30). As I was reflecting on this new identity in Christ on the Friday afternoon before I had to write this paper, I came home and noticed for the first time an inscription on our family’s garbage can lids: “Gracious Living.” I stood on the curb and laughed out loud. God has a great sense of humour. That is the where my spiritual autobiography ended. Now let me show you something cool: this is a link to an organization that builds homes out of trash that are self-sufficient in water, food, and energy. I'm very excited about these buildings because they have the potential to incarnate so many of my integrated passions: reducing waste and pollution, living in close community with others, creatively recycling things into functional art, making organically produced kosher foods readily available and affordable to anyone so we ('we' also includes ridiculously poor people living outside of the obese western world...) are not so dependent on pharmaceutical companies and medical practitioners. Very exciting:) Nolan is excited, too. Actually, he is the one who first showed me the u-tube clips about how the earthship houses are built and function. Thus, I may yet get my wish of living on shared property with my siblings and their (present and) future spouses and children along with mine. Yes, I'm very aware that I'm a geek. And I'm quite all right with that.

Creation, contamination, condemnation, isolation, Grace, restoration, communion, calling, Creation. This is where my spiritual autobiography begins and ends.

Fool Proof

I Slipped On a Banana Peel I was on my way to pick up my favourite skirt, now altered to not fall off my bum when I walk in it, from my "Aunt M" (an old friend of my parents I mistook for a creepy stalker on facebook and ended up becoming pseudo-counsellor then just friend to, not to be confused with Dorothy's Auntie Em from the Wizard of Oz), when suddenly I slipped on a banana peel. This was strange because I was sitting in the driver's seat of my parked car at the time. The only possible explanation for this ridiculous event is that God has a very classical slap-stick sense of humour, which he has felt the capricious need to unleash on me repeatedly in June. How the banana peel came to be sitting on the floor of my car is this:

After a care-free and mostly guilt-free day of girlishness spent making myself banana-walnut-peanut-butter pancakes for breakfast; going to an eye appointment; bargain-shopping for orange-smelling shampoo and conditioner with the provocative name of "Curly Sexy Hair," lace-trimmed shirts (including another pink one I just couldn't resist. Stupid glowing pink shirts. It's like being Mel Gibson's character in Conspiracy Theory), and a new pair of Merril runners (Woo-hoo!); checking my e-mails; and making supper with my mom, I headed out to pick up Dan, who had moved. Per usual, I missed a turn. Unusually, it didn't disorient me. Per usual, being correctly oriented didn't help, because my short-term memory forgot each street number as I passed it, so I had to pull over and get out of my car to read the street sign and figure out where the deuce I was. Unusually, when I checked the sign, I discovered I was on precisely the street I wanted. Per usual, I went back to my car to start driving again. Unusually, I thought to check the house numbers nearby to determine which direction on the road I ought to be going and discovered that I'd parked right outside Dan's house.

Following a detailed tour of his new dwelling, we went back to my house for dinner, picked up a video of Hogan's Heroes episodes, waved good-bye to my mother, and drove to his parents' house. For the first time ever, our date did not consist of walking around places talking. We were doing an exchange of images- we watched one DVD's worth of Dan's favourite tv show, Neon Genesis Evangelion (which turned out to be an anime science-fiction drama with well-developed Freudian psychological crises and Christian imagery), and one video cassette's worth of one of my favourite tv shows, the 1950-60s comedy sitcom of a WWII POW camp, Hogan's Heroes.

It was an educational experience. For my part, I learned that I've never heard of at least 55% of the movies Dan owns and loves, I've deliberately avoided seeing at least 25% of them, and I owe Tachae, Chasey, and Nolan (in that order) thanks for seeing to my cultural enrichment in the ~10% I have seen. Happily, Neon Genesis Evangelion is every bit as cool as its name implies and I am now an addict. I also learned that Dan's muscular arms and strong hands look equally hot when doing something manly like hooking up electrical cables or something perhaps not so manly like holding his cat and cooing, “Oh Tammy, you're so cute,” after said feline clawed her way up his pant leg. Other odd androgynous resemblances to Nolan keep popping up unexpectedly as well. For example, I could swear I used to own a pair of jeans almost identical to the ones Dan was wearing that day. I decided not to tell him. And unless by some miracle Dan was really, really enraptured by the movies, he learned that I'm a rather flatulent girl. Together, we learned that the whole guy's-arm-slipped-inconspicuously-behind-girl's-head thing when watching a movie is really uncomfortable. At the same moment my neck was forming a decided kink, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Dan's fingers were stretching and contracting repeatedly. “Have you lost all circulation in your arm yet?” I inquired. “Um, yeah,” Dan conceded, taking his arm back and rubbing it with his other hand, “I began losing feeling in my fingers pretty much as soon as I put my arm up.” Huh. I always wondered about that. So we held hands instead.

It was 12:30 by the time we finished the last Hogan's Heroes episode. “Wow. I could totally stay here forever,” Dan helpfully expressed my unspoken thoughts yet again. Fortunately, my more disciplined self rallied to the fore and reminded us that I needed to go home while I was still awake to drive, which in turn reminded Dan that he had to get up in 7 hours for work. So after snitching a banana from his family's fruit basket to pacify my growling stomach, I drove him home. Then we parked in front of his house. Which is when Jen's voice came to haunt me, patiently instructing me to just stare at Dan's lips when I want to initiate kissing. Sigh. I can't do it Jen. I'm sorry. Fictional romances have killed my ability to make serious moves with a straight face. And anyways, Dan is looking everywhere but at me...And he's fidgeting... He abruptly started and halted speaking three times. I sat in my seat and silently laughed at him because I'm really empathetic and I wanted to tell him that he throws me off, too. The only time I need a navigator to get to or from his house is when he's in the car with me. Then Dan apparently collected himself, because he turned to look at me and uttered a coherent sentence: “Faye, I'm going to kiss you.” I blinked. “Oh.” Does he mean now or just eventually? Brain, come back now. “Really?” “Yeah,” he said, still looking at me. “Okay," I stared blankly at the windshield, "Then just let me put the parking brake on first.” I don't know how to kiss. Think fast. Movies. Books. Head should be angled so you don't bump noses, keep lips soft (and partially open??). Then I was out of time because we were both leaning in. It was gross. We tried three times. None could be described as “toe-curling” or “breath-taking.” At least the latter two weren't as gooey as the first. Thank you Jen and Sindy for warning me in advance. As we pulled apart, I lifted an eye-brow and offered a half-smile, “Needs work?” “Maybe more practice?” he shrugged with a similar look of self-deprecating amusement on his face. So we said good-night and I drove away with the Cake lyrics “ Stick shifts and safety belts, Bucket seats have all got to go. When we're driving in the car, it makes my baby seem so far. ..” happily playing across my mind. And that is when my stomach started doing cliched flip-flops, because grossest first kiss in the world notwithstanding, Dan wanted to kiss me! Dan wanted to kiss me! Dan wanted to kiss me! Dan wanted to kiss me! Crap. Where the deuce am I going to get lessons for kissing if Dan has no experience either? Cheer up. You've always crusaded against the double standard of perfect chastity for females and sexual experience for males that dominates your culture. At least you won't have to worry about Dan comparing you to someone else. But I hate doing things I'm not already good at!!! Suck it up:). Seriously, God. I cannot even believe you just used that pun. You enjoyed it. And seriously, Faye. I protected you from premature relationships that would have jaded you. Why complain because I did the same thing for your match? Sorry. You're right. There is something very humbling and honouring about being the first and only chosen. But I really do want to know: how do you improve at something when you have no idea what the end result is supposed to look like? I was so distracted by that challenging question that I totally forgot to remove the banana peel from the floor beneath me where I dropped it after eating its contents because there's no garbage bag in the car. And that is how I ended up slipping on it in my car the next day.

On "Parking"

"Stick Shifts and Safety Belts" from Cake's (1996) Fashion Nugget

Stick shifts and safety belts, Bucket seats have all got to go. When we're driving in the car, It makes my baby seem so far. I need you here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat. I need you to be here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat.

But when we're driving in my Malibu, It's easy to get right next to you. I say, "Baby, scoot over, please." And then she's right there next to me. I need you here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat. I need you to be here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat.

Well a lot of good cars are Japanese. But when we're driving far, I need my baby, I need my baby next to me.

Well, stick shifts and safety belts, Bucket seats have all got to go. When we're driving in the car, It makes my baby seem so far. I need you here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat. I need you to be here with me, Not way over in a bucket seat.

Now, just to confuse you all, I'm going to go back in time before the banana peel incident, to the day a bird pooped on me. I didn't realize it had happened; if I had, I probably would have showered and then selected a different coat and bag for my sushi date with Dan that evening. As it was, I was flicking some mystery white substance that had dried on my bag and coat collar off with my fingers when we parked on a residential street across the Bow River from Prince's Island Park. Oh, crap. Literally, I realized. "Hey, I just figured out what this weird white stuff on my coat and bag is!" I told Dan conversationally as we exited his car. And as we pleasantly debated the best mathematical equation for determining the probability of being pooped on by a bird in one's life time, Dan sweetly took my hand for the walk across the river and through down-town to the Sushi place he'd decided on. It was especially sweet because it was the same hand he'd seen flicking bird poop off of my bag and coat a minute earlier. Well, now I know that he has no germ phobias...

Gradually our conversation topics conformed to societal norms, such as casual plans for the coming week. "Oh yeah, and before I forget," I added congenially, then body-checked Dan into a convenient patch of grass. After he caught his balance and returned to my side, looking slightly bewildered, I finished, "that's for making me read Aldous Huxley." He started laughing, "Um, was there something in particular that you didn't like?" So after a brief rant on Aldous Huxley's frequent use of obscure religious, literary, and historical art references and terminology, I admitted the real reason I body checked him was just to flirt, because mild physical violence is how I and my siblings express affection. "Man, I can't wait to tell my friends that you body checked me over Aldous Huxley!" Dan exclaimed enthusiastically.

After an interesting hour of eating seafoods I had never tried before (let alone tried raw) with my head tipped sideways because I don't really know how to use chopsticks all that proficiently, interspersed with an embarrassing number of visits to the washroom because I have a bladder the size of a pea (no pun unintended), Dan and I headed out for our customary walk. This time we picked the river pathway. As it turns out, the river path turns out from the Stampede grounds following the Elbow River, and that is the path we chose to follow.

Across from the Stampede grounds and on the other side of the Elbow is a very tall and steep hill, with some very large houses built on the top that are probably owned by some very rich people. There's also a fenced look-out point, and some wishful thinking enabled me to see a faint path through the grass and shrubs on the hill up towards it. As I was coming to expect, Dan was game to explore. We began to hike. At one point, our faint path branched to the right and left, and I lead the way to the left. Since that lead us to the occupied (and cleverly hidden) campsite of three homeless persons, we turned around and took the right path, which involved tromping through large patches of juniperous horizontalis. When we were about 3/4 of the way up, Dan suggested we sit down. I was dubious, since the ground was damp everywhere, but Dan found us a nice dry spot on a juniper shrub and even held my hand so I wouldn't slide down the near-vertical slope of the hill while we watched the sun set on the Stampede grounds and down-town Calgary.

"So I read your narrative," Dan stated after a comfortable silence. Poor Dan. We had exchanged life narratives the date previous at my request. For those of you who are not psychology geeks, a life narrative is a collection of stories a person gives about key events in their life, which can be analyzed for major themes that define the person's personality. In dating, I suppose it's something of a cheat sheet for discovering in short order who someone is, where they are coming from, and how they see the world. I don't know why, but it never really occurred to me until after I began reading Dan's narrative that exchanging life narratives meant that Dan would also be seeing my narrative. Mine is easily twice as long as his, in both analysis and actual narrative length. I wrote mine while I was depressed and in the midst of several courses that required pervasive self-reflection. Dan wrote his when he was rushed for time and trying desperately just to get his course work done so he could pass. He's also a guy and therefore doesn't routinely write novels or spout lengthy sonnets about his feelings the way I very routinely do. Thus, while Dan's narrative actually provoked more questions than it really answered, I suspected mine had probably provided more information and emotion than Dan was prepared to swim in. Frick.

"It was very..." and then there was a very long pause while Dan searched for a tactful but adequate description of his reaction. "Long?" I helpfully suggested. "Emotional," Dan decided. Um, no kidding. And then I felt this compelling need to start making complex excuses for both narrative characteristics. Have I mentioned my recent discovery that I babble when I'm nervous? Dan listened attentively anyway. So attentively, in fact, that he repeatedly ignored incoming calls on his cell phone, which was pretty funny because his phone was in his jeans pocket and he kept trying to turn it off inside his pocket with his opposite hand while it vibrated away beneath our romantically interlocked hands. What the heck is this? Of the two of us, Dan's the one who's never shown his narrative to another soul. I've shown mine to at least four other people since I wrote it but I'm the one running off on homeless persons' trails to avoid facing his opinion. Get a spine, Faye. I braced myself for whatever critical, analytical, philosophical, or pharmacological thoughts Dan had about my life story. "Okay, so what did you actually think about it?"

Dan looked intently at my face. I looked away towards the city lights. (I don't have that much spine.) "You're beautiful." Oh. Didn't see that coming. Think fast. Disagreeing with people's assessments of my appearance always just drags out my being in the spotlight. Be positive and graceful. "Um, thanks!" I said brightly, still not looking at him. But Dan wasn't going to let the conversation slide that easily: "I didn't just say that for tonight, either. I've thought that for a long time." What do you say to that? So we sat and looked out on the city lights in comfortable silence until I started shivering and had to suggest we continue our scramble up the hill and over the fence. After passing a likely very rich man who likely lives in one of the big expensive houses and was pretending we were not climbing over the fence he was looking out from, we headed back towards Dan's car.

It was too cold for exposed fingers so we had to give up holding hands for the shelter of our pockets. I felt kind of vexed with the separation and wished I wasn't so damn self-conscious because it seemed like the ideal opportunity to try out linking arms. Lucky for me, Dan is trained in Psychology so he can read other peoples' thoughts: "Here," he said, linking our arms so our hands could remain happily in our pockets. Wow. This is really personal. And safe-feeling. And comforting. Why is it comforting? Comfort is something you seek out when you're hurt or scared. I'm not either of those things...am I? In retrospect, linking arms is probably comforting for the same reason that it makes turning corners challenging: it pulls you snugly into another person's side (which, unless they are either dead or suffering from severe hypothermia, is probably warm and at least slightly softer than a 2X4 of wood). In Child Development class we learned that infants and young children who sleep with and are carried around by their parents tend to be more easily soothed when upset. Apparently, there's just something about being a human that craves warmth and contact. We were still in that synchronized position when we reached the Lions Gate Bridge, where a city bus dropped off a rider who began walking towards us: "Hey, do you guys know where there's a stair case down to Memorial?" Dan and I were pretty sure there was one in the direction we were heading, so we invited him to walk with us...down a dark, secluded, tree-lined pathway. As we entered the first shadow, our new acquaintance suddenly spun to face us and rapidly fired out: "Just so you know, my liver's not worth shit! I drink waaaay too much so in case you were thinking of throwing me down the hill or something- I know organ harvesting is profitable and stuff and you can never tell..." Yes, yes you do drink too much. And possibly you need to cut down on your television watching as well... But all we actually said was that there was a staircase to Memorial directly in line with the pedestrian bridge across the Bow to Prince's Island Park. He seemed equally relieved by both sight of the stairway and the fact that Dan and I left him for another path.

As we got closer to Dan's car, we began passing couples making out along the pathway or in their parked cars (including a few limos) with increasing frequency. Definitely grad season, commented the analytical-sociological side of my brain. Oh crap. We're totally parked in a major "parking" spot. Was Dan hoping to "park"? I'm never going to be able to keep a straight face!!! mimzied the more neurotic side of my brain. Just ask, suggested the practical part of my brain. "So, um, did you intend to park in a popular make-out point, or was it just kind of a fluke?" I inquired casually. Dan ran his unoccupied hand through his hair and looked around, "Ah, I was thinking it looked kind of busy around here. But, no, I just thought it'd have a nice view at night. I guess I should have known..." Then we arrived at Dan's car. As I buckled myself in, Dan turned the engine. The engine didn't turn. His face freezing, Dan slowly turned to look at me: "Oh. no. The. car. won't. start."

Violence is Cute

"Wait, wait, wait," interrupted Lisa, to whom I was relating the body-checking portion of my "On Parking" anecdote while we ate lunch in a Vietnamese restaurant near her work, "That actually works? Guys like being beaten on?" "Um, yes. It works as a flirtation tool around guys, and a fast bonding technique with little boys," I informed her, then reflected, "Amy taught me that."

I beat on Dan a lot. He seems to enjoy it. Which I suppose is kind of weird and kinky, since that's what sadomasochism couples get turned on by. Nevertheless, it has become an important aspect of our relationship. No, not sadomasochism, respect. I once asked Dan for three memories that represent who his mother is to him. One was a general memory: Dan said that his mother taught him to have respect for women. I considered asking him to describe what 'respect' meant to him. Considered, and then firmly rejected the question. It's pointless, really. Dan demonstrates his definition of respect, for himself and for others. For example, just moments before I asked the mom-question, I spontaneously decided it'd be a good time to body-check Dan towards the not-so-sparkling waters of the Chestermere canal. However, Dan was anticipating it this time and dodged, so I ended up spinning in a circle and falling over. Once down, I decided not to get up, preferring instead to gather my shreds of dignity around me by sitting up straight and staring out at the water. Dan sat down beside me and also looked towards the water, "There's a word for this, but I can't think of what it is." Humiliation? "Irony?" I suggested. "That's probably it," Dan agreed congenially. "You want to know the really ironic part?" "What's that?" "I injured my thumb doing that." Dan started laughing; "How is that even possible?" "I don't know," I shrugged, giving in to a grin, "It's not even the thumb on the side of my body I checked you with." "Which thumb was it?" "This one," I told him, holding it up as a still greater flood of irony hit me, because I knew what was coming before it came. "Poor thumb," empathized Dan, taking it in his hand to examine, then gently massage. Sigh. Poor ego.

Several weeks later, Dan and I were sitting alone in my friend Jen's kitchen at the end of a night of couples' dinner and games (Get your minds out of the gutter- we were playing Taboo. Oh wait, that sounds just as bad...dang nam it). At length, I decided to grow a backbone again and informed Dan that Jen was going to take an inordinate amount of time kissing her boyfriend good-night so we would also have time to "practice." "Practice what?" Dan asked, confused at first. But he's a pretty clever lad, so a minute or two later we were on our feet going at 'er. I felt a bit like an irritating five year old on a road trip with her parents: Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Well, good try, Dan. "Good try?!" Crap! Did I say that out loud?!! "Um, I meant, 'That was good.' Good job, Dan!" Dan didn't look entirely convinced. Dang Freudian slips. Poor Dan's ego.

And the moral of these stories is that Dan shows his respect for my feminine pride by courteously not paying attention to my violent clumsiness and I show my respect for Dan's masculinity by testing it repeatedly with the expectation that I won't break it, despite my clumsiness. God, this relationship is fool proof. Big, glowing, neon signs...

Revenge of the Flirtation Geru

I said I couldn't imagine real living and so I haven't. I just didn't realize how difficult it would be to find words to describe to someone else (or even to myself) what my life looks like now that I have one. So, at the risk of starting a whole new controversy, I'm going to call it Sensual Joy. Soooo...where to start? I went on a spiritual retreat the first weekend in May with my church Young Adult group. I went because I would like to get to know them all better, and because I love any opportunity to be outside, in or near the mountains. My highlight of the weekend was playing Mission Impossible, which surprised me because I've never liked that game. Maybe I've just always played it with too many people before, or maybe I was just given a new attitude towards it this time. Whatever the reason, IT WAS A BLAST. I pretended to be a log until I couldn't breathe; I crawled on my hands and knees through rocks, branches, moss, and grass. I ducked, darted, leaped, and sprinted. I plotted confusing schemes with team mates. I felt alive. For many of the young adults, the speaker was the highlight. She was a spiritual director/professor at Rocky Mountain College, and nearly everything she had to say was a repeat of what I have learned from courses taken with Charles Nienkirchen at Ambrose. I suspect they steal each other's lines, one of the most infamous being, "STOP DOING DEVOTIONS!" (They both emphasize a life of prayer, in many different forms, rather than a slotted time for some narrow tradition). I was really glad they brought her, but more because it meant I didn't have to teach what she had to say to them than because I felt I learned anything from her. Except. She had this one suggestion that entirely contradicted what my own spirituality professor had taught. The contradictory suggestion really irked me, although I acknowledged her reasons for making it seemed sound. She said, "Don't worry about getting into a daily routine for bible study and prayer. The same pattern doesn't work for everyone, and the same person will find he or she needs to switch things up according to new life situations. You'll only get bored if you keep things the same." Charles had always recommended the opposite: keep a daily prayer routine with enough flexibility in it that the Spirit can speak but with enough structure that you're not killing yourself trying to fill space with originality on more normal days. We did a group lectio divina at the end of her session. It was on John 21:1-13, when Jesus causes Simon Peter, Thomas, Nathanael, and 2 other disciples to catch more fish than a single boat could carry after an entirely unsuccessful night. (This is after Jesus was crucified.) We were all asked what stood out most to us and why. I was somewhat embarrassed to give the cliched answer that verse 7, about "diving in" and "jumping out of the boat," stood out most for me. But I couldn't help it. Seven is the verse in which Peter jumps out of the boat fully clothed to swim to see Jesus on the shore because he's SO excited. I understood Peter's delight- I'd seen it demonstrated in all its silly exuberance by Nolan on numerous occasions (Side note: Congratulations Nolan and Sherry! I hope Sherry's bum is bringing you both every bit as much joy as Nolan anticipated in his Song-of-Solomonesque wedding vows). But I also understood that if I had been in his place, I would have done what the other disciples did- stayed in the boat and rowed in with the giant catch. I would have felt torn about the decision- responsibility to my fellow fishers and economic pragmaticity versus immediate gratification for an irreplaceable soul-connection. What are you saying, God? What water are you wanting me to jump into alone to seek Joy? I should have been able to put two and two together. I'd been asking God for several years if he could bring me a Nolanesque-style boyfriend. I had spent enough time with anxious and neurotic friends, family members, aquaintances, and strangers to know that I needed someone very different for a romance- someone adventurous, fun, out-doorsy, and at peace with himself and God so I wouldn't have to worry that he only liked me because he thought I could heal him or give him an identity. Someone who didn't need me, who I wouldn't worry about crushing. Someone not also going into a counselling-type occupation who would get sucked as dry as I do. (Those marriages end in divorce about 80-90% of the time.) His answer to me (and everyone else who decided it was their duty to ask God for a husband for me) was always, "Wait." Specifically, he told me I would get to finish my 4-year degree first. I was happy with that. Some of my friends got married while they were still in the midst of their studies and they were some of the most stressed out students I knew. Plus, my spiritual mentor/friend Sindy had told me back in High School that my amazing superpower to remain invisible to the opposite sex was actually a protection from God until I was ready for the person he had for me. Consequently, I'd mostly not bothered taking up the habit of man-hunting. I don't have the patience or acting skills to present myself as anything apart from what I am, and what I am is darn awkward around guys I like or whom I think like me. Throughout college, my life became simple and full. I attended classes and did school work for a major in which females out-numbered males about 3:1. I spent my spare time with close girl friends, immediate family members, and took up work and volunteering positions separate from the public and dominated by female coworkers. My church young adult group was filled exclusively with couples and other women. I wrote a psychology paper about why my parents were despairing of ever having grandchildren. If I was going to meet someone, it would be a miracle of God. That was fine with me: to throw in still more transportation cliches, it meant that if there was ever to be a turn off from my highway of content singleness, it would have several giant, glowing, coloured neon signs to give me direction. So, when one of my more propheticish friends told me this winter she'd been asking God about a husband for me again, I wasn't worried. I sat back in my arm-chair with a raised brow, waiting comfortably for the inevitable, "He said you're not old enough" or "You're not ready yet" or "There's still things he wants you to experience alone with him first" or "Not yet." "He said that you'll be married or at least know who you're marrying before you go on to grad studies." "What?!" I had a sudden Sarah moment of laughing disbelief. I planned to be entering grad studies in two years, possibly on another continent. Although the possibility of meeting someone in grad school had occurred to me, being married or engaged before then had definitely not. "Also, I was given the distinct impression it's someone you already know," she continued. "WHAT?!" Who the deuce could it be?! I don't have any close guy-friends, and most of the casual ones who have so bravely asked me out in the past I turned down indefinitely. After talking out my list of possibilities with my friend, I loosely narrowed down my options to about 5, all of whom were long shots. This sent me into an extremely unhelpful cycle of obsessive thought for two weeks afterwards, in the midst of the heaviest school work load I'd ever had. When one of the final five contestants stunned me with a premature apology for not asking me out, I decided it was time to ask for help. I couldn't concentrate on my school work and I desperately needed to. I e-mailed my brother (for a solid masculine perspective), and three wise friends (who have known me for a long time) to ask for prayer and some practical advice. Their answers were variations of the same thing: (1) This is not important for you right now. Go do your homework. And (2) Trust your own ability to talk to and hear from your Heavenly Father. Is this what your heart wants? And thanks to their prayers to our Heavenly Father, the swirling thoughts ceased and I got my work done. The Premature Final Five was later eliminated by his own choosing, much to my relief. Because though I felt really guilty for thinking it, in case God wanted me to learn patience or teaching skills or something, my heart's response was Oh God, no. And so, two months later (the week before the retreat), as I attended a Behavioural Science graduation pot-luck dinner my friends had convinced me to go to despite my technical non-graduating status (I'm missing one class), I found myself chatting pleasantly with small groups of my equally burned-out but still optimistic comrades... including Dan. To my surprise, we had a lot in common. And by a lot, I mean more than just a year of shared misery completing (and avoiding) independent psychology research projects required for entry into graduate programs. Toward the end of the evening, I mildly thought it'd be cool if we kept in touch via e-mail or something, but forgot to ask what his e-mail was. Dan wasn't on my list of pre-meditated possibilites, after all. Fortunately, we just happened to be the last two people to leave my pot-luck hosting professor's house. Then Dan also just happened to walk me to my car. Weird. This is what guys in romantic comedies do to ask girls out. And gave me his number; "We should go walking some time." I could hear my sister Melanie's voice in my head, telling me that she and Joe figured they really started dating the day she asked him to go for a walk with her, because guys and girls who are "just friends" just don't do that. Whatever. I go on walks with anyone non-creepy who's willing. He probably just asked because he's going through college-people withdrawl and he knows we both like walking. I got in my car and proceeded to drive home, getting lost again only once. Then, Waaait a second...And then I nearly crashed. And that is how I accidentally began dating. It's dangerous business, Frodo, walking outside your door. You never know where your feet might take you... Several years ago, Nolan introduced me to a book called The Five Love Languages, by a counselling psychologist named Gary Chapman. I, in turn, introduced the book to Melanie and Valerie (as well as some other people, but I won't name them all). Chapman's premise is fairly simple: there are more or less 5 major languages of love. Each of us favours one or two of these particular languages to express and receive love. Recognizing your own love language, as well as the prefered love language(s) of people around you, can be highly beneficial in building positive familial, romantic, or friendship ties. The five are, if my memory serves me correctly, (1) words of encouragement, (2) physical touch, (3) acts of service, (4) quality time, and (5) gifts. Later in my scholastic studies, I encountered a similar idea expressed through something called a "Love Map" hypothesis of liking, which emphasizes that the unique features and interactions that turn each individual on is determined mostly by early childhood family experiences/environment. I had a really difficult time figuring out which of Chapman's languages was mine. I love giving people well-thought out gifts. I put a lot of time, effort, and thought into creating elaborate cards, wrappings, and item-combinations for people I love. I really hate receiving poorly thought-out gifts from other people. Still, if gift making/shopping was keeping someone from hanging out with me, I would be much happier without the presents and with the presence. On another hand, acts of service are really important to my family, and I am no different. Family members or close friends who don't pull their own weight and pitch in to do things like make meals, clean, drive siblings to various extra-curricular events, do the laundry, etc. are resented. However, I resent doing those things for other people if I'm doing them alone and my efforts go un-noticed, which might suggest I'm a words-of-encouragement kind of person, except that I really hate direct or public praise and I think flowery encouragements from cards, sermons, etc are tedious to bear. Hense, I deduced I must be a quality-time kind of girl, specializing in meaningful conversations. I never considered the physical love language a possibility for me. That was my sister Jeana's language. Nolan and I were also very preoccupied with a counselling psychologist called Kevin Leman for a while. Leman writes books about birth order effects on personality (which apparently is known as the Family Constellation theory among Psychology academia). I even bought one of his books: The Birth Order Connection, which basically gives you a list of things you should have in common with your romantic partner and a list of things you and your romantic partner should contrast in. It's pretty sage advice. Leman vehemently warns against people of the same birth order placement hooking up- personalities tend to be too similar to allow for complementarity and compensation for each other's strengths and weaknesses. According to his descriptions, I am counted as a first born, since I'm the oldest daughter in a non-gender role stereotyping family. I decided early on that I needed to find myself a youngest born stud so I can remember to have fun and not kill myself when therapy with clients doesn't go the way I want it to. And yet... Flying home from my grandmother's funeral this spring between my brothers, I found myself happily engaged in alternately tickling Chasey in the side until he screamed and finally retaliated and leaning into Nolan as he asked my opinion on how our various family members express and experience various basic emotions. We came to the consensus that among siblings, we express affection as physical contact, most often tickling. I was reminded suddenly of Morrie, filled with delight over any positive physical touch (Mitch Albom, Tuesdays With Morrie). On our first un-date, I discovered that Dan is a first born. Crap, God. How's this going to work? You know, you asked me for someone like your older brother. Nolan's the first born in your family. Yeah, but Nolan's odd, even for our family. Trust me. I asked Dan how he thought being the oldest sibling had affected him. "I was always finding ways to push the boundaries, got in trouble a lot." That's how Nolan describes his childhood... I heard God laugh. A half hour before I was supposed to be leaving for the Young Adults Retreat, Dan called me. I was a little surprised, given that he'd already invited me out the first time and it probably should have been my responsibility to follow that up with a reciprocal offer of time, but I'd chickened out. He asked me what I was doing that evening so I told him about the retreat. He then told me that he was also going camping that weekend, albeit later. He was going back-packing with a best friend in the Waipourous. God, really? Really, he likes hiking and back-packing? It was a good thing I'd been tenting in Waipourous once, because that gave me something to work with for conversation while my brain and heart recovered. Then the conversation came to it's logical end and Dan fell silent. Working hard to quell nervousness, I hurriedly invited him to come along to my little brother's rock show later that month. He gamely agreed, then fell into silence again and I was ready to bludgeon him for the awkward silence because he'd called me, so the onus was on him to say why he'd called and not leave me hanging. God, how could you do this to me?! This is why first borns shouldn't date each other. Two quiet people can't keep conversations going! God was silent, too. Come on Faye, use your DC conversation skills. Ask him a clarifying question. "So, just to verify, were you calling to invite me along camping or just to chat?" GAAAAAAA!!! Where did my brain go? How could it desert my mouth at a time like this?! He asked at the beginning what you were doing this evening! You killed his invitation with your prior plans, idiot. Dan gave a very surprised and nervous laugh. I might have begun banging my head against the wall at that point, but he would have heard it. Believe it or not, we arranged to go for a second walk anyway. The things I loved most about our family's roadtrip to BC for Nolan's wedding? Falling asleep at night piled on and under and between my sisters and cousin, Heather; absorbing the warm sunshine into my skin, feeling comforted by the feel and sound of a gentle breeze running through the garden of the house we stayed in, laying in dew-covered grass, being drenched by 4 degree celcius waves while Whitewater Rafting with Heather; finally seeing Nolan and getting a big, enthusiatic hug from him before he dissapeared with his betrothed again; punching Chasey to make him yelp when he said impertinent or cheeky things. I almost felt guilty for failing to either journal or read my bible more than once the entire 4 days we were gone. Almost. On our second un-date, I asked Dan where he wanted to travel to just for the heck of it and where he'd go for a purpose, what the purpose would be, and why. Dan is a psych major, too. This makes things tricky sometimes, because not only does he answer my questions with excellent self-reflection, but he directs them back at me, waits for a real answer, and asks probing questions of his own. This means I have to be careful not to ask questions I'm not ready to answer. I had an answer. When I described my intent to pilgrimage to Lac Ste. Anne next summer, Dan asked if he could be one of the people to come with me. I was a little bit stunned. Mainly because he was sincere. Many people have been supportive of my going, but not even my best friends have offered to come along. God burst his shirt, he was laughing so hard. As I dropped my sister Samantha off for her 1 hour piano lesson, the sky began to pour in earnest. Conveniently enough, the song "Desert Storm" by DaRue began to play on the radio (i.e. "I dream of rain, e-lay-e-a-lay..."). I was delighted. When the song finished, I got out of the car and walked through the rain for an hour. Actually, I did more than walk. I spontaneously ran up and down hills, jumped over road medians, climbed all over dripping, deserted children's playgrounds, and touched every last dripping wet tree, bush, and shrubbery within reach of the side-walk. I felt sorry for the people I could see sitting inside their dry houses playing video games or watching tv. I thought of The Big Fish scene where the Big Fish is sitting in a bath-tub fully clothed and tells his puzzled wife, "I felt all dried out." I felt like crying. Laughing. Refreshed. I know, you're always throwing kisses from the sky. Well tonight I caught one...(Blindside, "Shekina," About a Burning Fire). Remembering my good professor Nienkirchen's caution to understand and absorb rare super-natural moments rather than become addicted to always feeling super-natural, I praised God for the delirious hour and figured that would be the end of the wordless moments. Less than a week later, I found myself walking in the golden light of the evening, overpowered once again by the rich colours and textures of the natural world displayed in suburbian gardens and yards. And what is this? A cul-de-sac I've never explored before? How is this possible? I felt compelled to explore. A path lead to a mirroring cul-de-sac, also completely unfamiliar to me. And then I saw it. The most beautiful house in the world. Actually, I have no idea what the house looked like. It was the yard and garage door that had me spell-bound. It was like seeing a summer-filled piece of my soul incarnated. The garage door had a flower-covered mountainside hand-painted in bright red, orange, yellow, and sky blue on it. To the right, a pine hedge lined either side of neat cement steps leading to a rich brown wooden door. Intermingled in the hedge were black iron stakes with reflective silver spheres on their tips. To the left of the stair case were two large pine trees, whose lowest branches had been trimmed off. Dangling from innumerable branches was a mesmerizing collection of things that sparkled, shone, twirled, twisted, spun, and twinkled in the wind. There was even a lop-sided 3-D heart. Why wouldn't you have a lop-sided shiny heart danging from a pine tree?! I thought, dazed in euphoria. Later on the same walk, I discovered the epitome of what my friend Jen might call "useless but fun." It was a 2 meter tall metal stake with two children's bicycle wheels attached and rotating on a horizontal axle at the top. Attached to the wheels were a series of 2 litre pop bottles, cut into scoop shapes and spray painted in silver, black, yellow, red, green, and blue. The wheels, of course, ran in the wind whenever the scoops caught it. I don't know how to explain how very, very happy I was that it existed. I don't want to tell you how long it took me to find my way back to that obscure location the next day to take a photo. No, I do not have a job yet. Meanwhile, un-date number four came to it's conclusion in my parked car out-side Dan's house. I said we were parked, not "parking," thank you very much. Really, I could no longer call it an un-date, since when Dan had called to re-book it earlier that week he had specifically called it a date. He'd re-booked in order to deal with several deaths in his family. I really hadn't known what to do to be supportive (which is embarrassing, given that I'd already dealt with the same thing a few months earlier), so I just stayed out of the way. I didn't even have a card to give him when I showed up at his house a few days after the funeral. I hadn't known what to say. So I just asked how he and his family were doing. They were fine. They'd bonded closer together in their grief, were finding the closure they needed. Precisely how my family had reacted. He didn't need me to comfort him. God had already done it. I don't know why I was surprised by that. [God rolls his eyes]. And after watching Dan and my little brother hit it off famously at my brother's band performance, I had to admit, God, I like Dan. However, this was not especially helpful thinking while we sat in my car and I tried hard not to fidget. My Flirtation Geru had tried very hard over the phone earlier that day to give me tips on how to start the momentous courtship ritual of hand-holding. We had already determined that I was too much of a coward to ask directly or to simply take his hand. Her first suggestion was for me to pretend to have difficulty while walking over difficult terrain so I could ask for his help. "Jen," I patiently explained, "that's ridiculous. We've already walked over plenty of rough terrain together. He knows I'm perfectly capable of walking on my own." "All the better," she said smugly, "then he'll know why you're pretending." I refused. I'm not coy. Pretending to be so just seemed like a violation of our unspecified relationship. "All right," she amended, "why don't you just be your honest self and tell him about your flirtation lessons? Then he'll figure it out indirectly." Kill me now. Her third plan was for me to simply link my arm with his; "Faye, you present yourself very confidently and independantly. You're going to have to let him know it's okay to touch you, or he won't. No guy would dare. Linking arms is dignified but clear in it's meaning." I decided to aim for plan C. I failed. And given that we were walking through a graveyard at night and the ground was decidedly uneven and in some parts rocky and slippery, Plan C probably would have been especially appropriate. As I drove Dan home, listening to a cassette tape of ABBA he discovered in the car, I kept envisioning Jen's future reprisals for botching such a simple plan. So we sat in the car, exchanged "That was fun, let's hang out again soon"s, booked our next date for before Dan left for a psychology research conference (Dan loves the sense and perception physiological side of psychology). Then we hit silence. He's just staring at me. He has beautiful eyes. What am I supposed to be doing? Jen's going to kill me. I started babbling. I never realized before that moment that I babble when I'm nervous. I reached for the first thing that came to mind: Jen. Our next date was set for the day I was babysitting her children. "Jen is my flirtation geru." AAAAAAAAAAAAHHH! ABORT, Faye, ABORT!!!! There's no way to go but down with a conversation starter like that and Dan is, after all, a psych major. He wasn't thrown off track at all by my additional herring bone babble. "But what was the pretending to fall supposed to accomplish?" What else could I say but the truth? "Um, hand-holding, believe it or not." I laughed to make it more casual, wishing with all my heart I had never read Nora Roberts' Irish Thoroughbred novel with Tachae in our teens..."We need to find some other way for you to expend all that energy..." Damned belated teenage hormones. Dan continued watching me steadily. Cornered, I shrugged, helpless. Dan raised one eyebrow, then said, "Faye, hand-holding is very simple." Darn he has a soothing, deep voice. Then he offered me his hand, palm up. I stared at it. Nope. There's no hope for the recovery of your pride, Faye. I took his hand and beamed. He wished me a good night, walked into his home, and I began driving towards mine. I almost twisted the steering wheel off, and as I willfully made my hands relax, I wished I had not watched the Kiera Knightly version of Pride and Prejudice with my sisters over... and over... and over again. Little natives danced in my head chanting, "Populated self. Populated self." Hey! That was Plan B! And I want you all to know that it works. Date five, after Jen introduced herself to Dan as my flirtation geru at dinner then innocently reminded me that Weaselhead Park was exceptionally close-by, and after some steep downward climbing, marsh-tromping, and companionable bushwacking, we accidentally ended up on a real path. Was that brush of fingers accidental or intentional? Oh. Definitely intentional. I beamed. We were holding hands. We were now officially dating. And as it turns out, psychology training was making Dan over-think his moves as well. Figures. So, an afternoon and evening walk through a giant field near the airport; a theatre performance, walk around down-town, and drinks and appetizers at Moxies; a walk around his neighbourhood and Nosehill park; my little brother's punk rock performance and a night walk through a graveyard; and dinner with Jen and her kids and a bush-wacking/marshy walk through Weaselhead Park later, I feel kind of pressured to admit I have a boyfriend or else take Melanie's place for Self-Denial Cutie. I might have to change the 'single' status on my rarely-used facebook account. Whoa, now. This is getting serious... So here's the thing, God: I'm still awkward. I empathize strongly with Lisa O'Malley's character in Dee Henderson's The Truth Seeker when she bemoans the fact that she has the childish habit of holding her heart hidden in a jar, then suddenly handing it all over at once with a "Here." Some discernment for how to proceed would be nice. You'll get it as you need it and ask for it. Besides, if you're going to hand your heart over to someone, at least Dan has nice hands...:) Oh...my... Starry-eyed surprise:)

Conversations

Social psychologist Kenneth Gergen described the citizens of present western civilization as having "populated selves." That is, no individual is really an individual, but more of an intersection, built of the hundreds and thousands of communicative interactions each person has with the people they encounter directly and indirectly. I've been thinking about that a lot lately. There are so many voices running around my head. My very last Spaces of the Heart class with Nienkirchen last Tuesday was on journaling. Although he acknowledged that the golden rule of journaling is that however you are doing it is the right way, Nienkirchen offered one suggestion I found intriguing. He asked us to consider making a list of people and experiences to have dialogues with, including famous or influential people (dead or alive), people close to you, strangers, your body, the environment, God. He didn't mean it in a pantheistic or spiritual medium kind of way, but more in the historical fiction or poetic writer's prerogative sort of way, where you listen to what those people or experiences have said or are saying, and you imagine, based on the evidence, what they would say to you if you took them out for a Thursday afternoon chat in a relatively empty coffee-shop for a few hours. Since that class, I have had more than 19 group and one-on-one conversations with God, strangers, fictional book characters, co-workers, friends, and family members. And those 19 were just the really significant ones I remembered to write down. Consequently, I'm a bit peopled-out, so I'm sipping a popular legal stimulant while hiding out at my mostly-vacant school until one of the building security guards comes to throw me out when they're locking up. Read life is hard. I know I need to start rebuilding my relationships with my church young adult group. I know they have bible study on Tuesday nights. I just don't want to go tonight. I don't know what to say, and I still haven't really processed any of the other conversations I've already had last week and this week. I didn't know what to say in most of those conversations either, so mostly I just listened to stories. Listening is good. I wish I did it even more often. For example, listening would have been smart on Friday afternoon, after my DC shift, when I sat down on the train to go home. Although the train was almost entirely empty, a young man came and sat down beside me, thus defying one of those unspoken social taboos about personal space on city transit I've come to notice with keen interest through my studies in sociology. Then he immediately broke still another unspoken social taboo, by turning to me and asking "Do you think I need to lose weight?" Looking up from the book I had begun reading, I searched his face, wondering if this was a joke. He was not kidding. Nobody talks to complete strangers about personal health issues unless the stranger is a health professional or the person talking is requesting immediate assistance for some kind of medical emergency like a heart attack, allergic reaction, or a stabbing. Grasping my DC Rogerian training like a shield, I politely told him, "I don't know. That's probably something you'd want to discuss with a doctor." Then we briefly discussed some of the pros and cons of relying on the BMI for indication of health problems. When that came full circle to his confirming that he should talk to his doctor about it, I decided the conversation was done and I resolutely began reading again. But I was bothered. What was behind that conversation? What was he really looking for? Was he so desperate for validation and affirmation as a human being that he was seeking attention from complete strangers for trivial personal issues? In addition, that verse about being conscientious to entertain strangers because you may be hosting angels unawares kept intruding into my determined reading. Ask him about himself. The command was no more than a whisper. I heard it, I ignored it, I regret it. I also regretted not listening on Sunday night. I was sleeping over at a friend's house after helping to child-wrangle at a baking-themed birthday party that afternoon. Everything was going smoothly until the un-birthday child realized his sibling would be allowed to stay up late to watch a movie with a friend since the birthday child had no school Monday, while the Unfortunate had to go to bed at the usual time and attend school as usual the next day. After we had listened to precisely 4 door slams, countless "IT'S NOT FAIR!" roars, and the sound of something heavy hitting the floor for the sixth time, I offered to go talk to him. Unperturbed by the dissapointed child's angry screams for me to go away, I inquired with mild interest what he'd been using to make all the noise. Unable to entirely hide his assauged pride, he moodily informed me that the heavy falling object had been a u-bar bike lock. They bounce? Who would have known? I thought absently. It did not take long to realize that discussing the problem logically was not going to help, so I utilized the eternal boy-wisdom of Amy instead: I stole the child's comforter and threw it at him. With vengeance, he threw it back. I caught it and hucked it at him again. By the third round, he was finding it difficult to hide his grin. He loves being wrestled with. Time for the kill. I began climbing the ladder to his bunk. He attempted to knock me off by smothering me in his comforter, as I had expected. I pushed my way up and flipped the comforter over him, then tickled him until he couldn't breathe. I asked if he'd like to read a book with me before bed. He eagerly agreed and raced off to find his favourite book, Star Wars III. Victory is mine, I thought smugly. Just call me 'Cool Aunt Faye'. A snack and two chapters later, he was ready to go to sleep. That is, he was ready until he remembered that his ear infection needed cleaning and helpfully went to remind his sibling of the same thing. Unfortunately, seeing his sibling still up watching a movie reminded him of his anger with full force, and within five minutes he was screaming, yelling, and throwing things with a passion that made the earlier storm seem tame. His mother's patient explanations and stern admonition to stop only intensified his rage, and he began the all-too-familiar refrain, "I HATE YOU, MOMMY! I HATE YOU!" Closing his door, she went to her room to cry. Deja vu, in a repeating nightmare, oppressive way. [Let me clear any misconceptions this picture might arouse. My friend is not a wimp. Neither is she an overly indulgent, neglectful, or abusive parent. She's just a single parent who happens to have a very troubled and difficult child with whom normal child-disciplinary methods do not work, and the burden leaves her very tired, discouraged, and defeated sometimes.] I felt torn. My friend needed comfort and encouragement. Her son needed to be calmed. Her other child, I knew, was feeling worried and scared again. Waiting it out wasn't going to work. My friend's son has demonstrated the unnatural ability to maintain that level of rage for hours. I knew what I should do. My friend had already told me the most effective way to deal with these situations. We needed to pray together for help, then go face the demons with scripture, prayer, and what some child therapists might call "therapeutic holding." Bible. I needed my bible. I went to look for it, only to remember it was in my friend's room already. I went back, pulled it out of my bag, set it on the bed. Then I got up to close the door so we could hear ourselves, but instead just walked straight to his room and shouted, "THAT IS ENOUGH! THAT IS NOT APPROPRIATE BEHAVIOUR! YOU WILL NOT SAY THAT TO YOUR MOTHER!" There was a pregnant silence in the dark room. Then he erupted, "GO AWAY!!!!! GO AWAY, GO AWAY, GO AWAY! I HATE YOU, GO AWAY!" His voice was going raw with the mantra, but the volume was not decreasing. Filled with anger of my own at the whole situation, I marched in to his room and climbed the ladder again, capturing his writhing body in my arms in a hard hug. And that was when I realized I was a moron. Sure, I could hold him still- I must be at least three times his weight. But I had no idea what to pray. My mind was empty. I hadn't prepared. Then his mother was there, commanding the demons in his room to leave him, telling her son that she loved him and Jesus loved him, acknowledging that she understood he was dissapointed but he needed to fight the demons who were consuming him with rage. She reminded him that he needed to sleep so he could have a good day at school tomorrow. "I DON'T CARE!" screamed the still thrashing, yelling, and sobbing child. "Yes, you do," she countered firmly, and then proceeded to remind him of the things her son had learned to like at school, the goals he wanted to achieve. She asked him if he would let her hold him. Though still crying and occasionally screaming, he agreed, and so his mother and I switched spots. By this point, the child needed his inhaler, so I went in search of it. Predictably, it was not where the boy thought it would be, so I asked God to help me find it. He did. I took it to the now quietly crying and gasping child, whose mother was reassuring him that the room was filled with angels now, he was safe and could go to sleep. We turned on his favourite worship c-d, exchanged I-love-yous and good-nights, and he went to sleep. Out in the hall, my friend turned to me and demanded, "What were you thinking?! When you went to find your bible, I thought, 'Oh good, she knows what she's doing.' Then you suddenly went charging into a room filled with 50 demons and I was like, 'Oh dang, she doesn't.'" "I'm sorry," I said, ashamed. "I don't know what I was thinking. I guess it was just pride." "Well, it worked out alright," she said kindly, "I knew I'd have to go rescue you, so you motivated me to get back on my feet again. We live and learn." And we know that all things work to the good of those who love God, who are called according to his purpose. Coincidentally (or providentially?), my last meeting with Lisa was on the Saturday morning before that interesting Sunday night episode. One of the things we discussed was learning to recognize the limitations of our personal skills and knowledge, and the importance of seeking the Holy Spirit for healing spiritual wounds that aren't effectively touched by mere psychological and social treatments. The topic came up partly because it was something I'd begun sorting through in my last three school papers and two presentations, which Lisa wanted to hear the out-come of. In addition, while out with friends on Saturday night celebrating our respective graduations and un-graduations, I had been convicted of my self-focus when my astute friend Jen burst out laughing at me for temporarily zoning out in the middle of another friend's conversation. God, I'm thick. Please help. I'm trying. Just shut up and listen, for crying out loud:) And security has come to kick me out.