Sunday, January 14, 2007
I have the word "rest" highlighted on my calendar. Repeated each Sunday, it seems agreeable with me.
Last weekend, I let everything go and slept on and on as the virus swept over me. I agreed with my body that I needed to rest. Sometimes it seems hokey and simplistic to go to church. My church isn't cool. It's not emerging out of anything. We mildly attempt slick and polished, the kind that's attempted by anyone with a laptop and suitable software. Our topic is usually the "Old, Old Story".
Even though I woke with a headache, leftovers of the virus, I gathered myself out of habit. It's been weirdly cold even by O.C.'s standards. Everything started out hard. I didn't get ready fast enough to eat breakfast. I arrived itchy, and cranky and impatient. I didn't feel contemplative about anything but the coffee I knew I would find in the small cloistered classroom underground.
I got my cup, ignoring how the smile I faked was not a good start, and engaged my friend Carol. Blessed Carole, one of many kind people there, who just like me, ignored every mild irratation to get to church. Her eyes got me off of thinking about my own. Her conversation, joined with others, got me off my preoccupation of me. Last week I retired. This week, I rested.
We are a strange group, I'll admit. Church people are weird. We give each other symbols like dirt. (I really got dirt from Shane - you're strangely cool, brother). We dunk each other in little indoor spas and eat dollhouse crackers to remember cosmic occurances. We suspend our disbelief in an effort to believe so much. And each week, we attempt to rest from all other normal activity. We try to knit in all we teach each other. We return to normal life, but a little weirder, a little more effected to effect change for the better.
One rest ended my illness. The other infected me with faith, hope and love.