Button nose.

When I was a wee lass, living on the plain, this is about the time of year that my favorite childhood memory would become a daily occurrence. Every night after supper, I would beg my daddy to get out his guitar and play Christmas songs. He would of course indulge me because it was a legitmate excuse to get him out of doing the dishes. By legitimate, I mean my mama enjoyed him playing as much as I did, so she did not mind being short a set of hands while washing the plates.

He would play all the Christmas standards from this ragged carol book. On the front cover there was a family standing around their piano and donning their gay apparel. We never did this around the piano. Sometimes it was on the couch. On more than one occassion, I made my dad play while we sat by my parents' bathtub because there were steps in front of it. I loved sitting on steps then just as I do now.

It did not matter where he played or how many verses of "12 Days of Christmas" he insisted on playing because all I was waiting around for was, "Frosty the Snowman." He usually had to play it twice because I would make him. I realize this story reveals what an eccentric and controlling child I was. However, it is one of the times when my home felt happiest.

My dad hasn't played "Frosty the Snowman" in a very long time. Today I heard it while I was at Starbucks and it made me wonder if the sheet music is still in the bottom of his Gibson guitar case. I hope so because if it isn't, my father will have to play it by memory. I do not know how easy that is when you are ten years out of practice.

. . . then I remember why I am cynical.

Today I stopped by a little establishment called Chik-Fil-A because I wanted some sweet tea. While waiting on my sweet tea, a delightful lad by the name of Jason tried to sell me a Chik-Fil-A cupon calendar. His key selling points included: "It's only $5 . . . It'll make a great holiday gift . . . I've sold 19 of these babies in two hours, they're going fast . . . Plus, the guys REALLY dig it, eh?" After this little spiel I simply say, "Oh yeah? Maybe next time, okay?" It's most likely I am being this nice because he still ample opportunity to spit in my drink. He then adds, "Oh, well . . . this is also a contest." Thank you for the honesty, bud. He then hands me my drink and says, "Well, Merry Christmas." It is at this point I want to tell Jason, "Listen, I'm a Jewish lesbian." However, he probably knows someone who knows someone who knows my dad and it will break his heart to find out that his little girl is a lesbian that doesn't accept Jesus as her savior. So, I restrained myself.

Why I love Sunday School (a list).

1. middle schoolers + relationships = funny/cute/ohmygoshhowridiculous
2. I say that I was born in 1988 and immediately I hear, "1988?! You're old."
3. I use a time when I've been mean as an example and they don't believe that I could do anything mean. LOLZ.
4. While discussing kindness, someone throws a fit because she did not get a piece of bubble gum. After the aforementioned girl slams her fist into the wall and goes to sit in the corner. Everyone starts laughing at her, but while they are laughing one boy walks over offers her his piece of gum saying that he does not really want it anyway. I think my heart broke and then was put back together again. Of course she was very stubbron and refused to take it. He then ate it. Still. Gestures mean the world sometimes.

Disgusting.

This afternoon, I walked into the front door of my father's house to find my brother and sister in the kitchen laughing and preparing the turkey for tomorrow. Of course this was mildly precious because they were getting along, which is a rare occurrence. However, the moment that was created and may have even prompted a traditional, terrible entry on how Thanksgiving REALLY is a time for giving thanks was ruined by the country music they were blasting all throughout the house. I, of course, do not know who it was . . . I am sure it was Brad Paisley or Tim McGraw because these are the only country musicians I know by name. I am willing to bet it was them singing a duet together. Anyway, it ruined Thanksgiving.

"I'm a Cuckoo."

"Jesus told me, go after every coin like it was the last in the world.
And protect the wayward child . . .
But I’m a little lost sheep.
I need my Bo Peep.
I know I need my Shepherd here tonight.

Breaking off is misery.
I see a wildness for you and me,
Punctuated by philosophy.
I'm wondering how things could’ve been."

-- Belle and Sebastian

This song has been stuck in my head. More so than any other song. In the history of the world. Ever.

A quick list.

1. Buddhism is a religion.
2. We should seek relationship with others in order to gain community, not converts.
3. I have a hard time expecting people to grasp the concept of the bread of life when they hardly have enough bread to live today.
4. Statistics are dangerous and become toxic when used to draw loose, inept correlations.
5. Scripture is best utilized in context, not when grouped according to a common word.
6. The above are all my opinion. Anytime I wish to express them, I will make sure to let everyone know they are such. I do not want to present a one-sided, opinionated representation of anything because it creates non-critical, lazy thinking.

Less stress on the pilgrim and more on the progress.

So I did it. I finished draft one of my sure to be-- if nothing more-- mediocre creative writing entry. I am genuinely excited about thinking it is mediocre at this point because like my friend, Ben Franklin says, "You are your own worst critic." (I am not at all certain if Ben Franklin did indeed say this, but I do know that he said lots of smart things and loved turkeys and French whores. So, odds are in his favor.) At any rate, I finished the first draft so now there is nothing to hold me back from actually turning it in to be scrutinized by English professors department wide.

Church.

One of my favorite types of worship services are the ones that go horribly wrong (horribly wrongs as in things outside of your control go awry, not because you were careless or lazy). I think those are the times when we really live out what church is supposed to be. Often we do come to worship and expect to sit back and receive. We receive a message. We receive the peace. We receive communion. However, when service suddenly becomes mass chaos with chords shorting and efforts to stall in short supply, we are all suddenly drawn out of our seats. Some of us rush to the back to help. Some of us rush to the front to distract. Some of us sit fists clenched in our chairs wondering what is going on and why this is happening and whose big idea was it to wreck church today. Suddenly, everyone is engaged. Everyone is listening. Even if we are only listening to know who we can blame after the service is over, our ears are open and we are alert.

Two things.

I love finger painting and newspaper. It is like your five-year-old self interacting with your twenty-five-year-old self. While I am not 25, I assume I will be one day and when I am . . . I will read newspapers.

Inferior faith is how I'm remembering today.

I do not have these pretty things to say about my faith. I hardly trust that it is "all in God's hands." I struggle with the idea that "God already has a plan for it." I rarely feel that "God has laid something on my heart." It is not that I am theologically (or otherwise) opposed to these notions, I simply don't feel them. I trust that God has a grip on what my reality is, as God did create it. However, that is not necessarily a comforting thing to me. How tumultous is it to think that my suffering and my sorrow is part of God's plan? How are people strong enough not only to consider that God let's them suffer as part of his plan, but to greet that as a comforting idea? I worry that I am too critical and cynical to allow God to lay anything on my heart . . . the only exception to this is the occassional, overwhelming outburst of engaged empathy. I have always considered faith a place where questions are welcomed and confusion expected. However, I am having a hard time lately finding assuredness that God appreciates my questions.