The Messenger

I start my Just 10 walk with word soup sloshing in my head.  I'm afraid it will start spilling out my ears.  Today, I am eager for that special encounter along this path.  For a long time, nothing comes.  I'm getting tired of my word soup.  I try to empty the bowl.  (At this point, you can see parallels to yesterday's "Just Flush It.")

And then, along the path, I encounter a young mother and her tiny son on a tiny scooter.  He must not be more than 3-years old.  He looks at me, squinting against the hazy sky, and says a perfect, "Good Morning."  Ah, the angel has spoken.  He is the messenger and a delightful one at that.   I hug the memory of the cute "Good Morning."

My pleasant escape from reality doesn't last long.  Not far up the trail, I spot a woman.  She has an unusual gait.  Her flip flops almost don't leave the surface of the asphalt trail .  A purse dangles at an akward angle.  As she nears, I see that her unnaturally colored face resembles that of Bette Davis in "What Ever Happened to Baby Jane."   Even in black and white you'll get the idea. 

My painted lady is no Jane.  Her thorazine shuffle won't allow her to serve rats for lunch.  That takes too much energy.    The memory of my daughter's often plaintive query,  "Mom, do you always have to make fun of people" pierces my awareness.   Sadly, she speaks the truth.  I make jokes to hide the pain.  I feel for this woman.  I'm also a tad bit frightened by what I don't understand.  You'd think with the word soup I have in my head, I'd look at her and see a kindred spirit.  I wonder what mental patient I'll see next on the trail and feel instantly ashamed of my cruel humor.

I've just passed my painted lady when I hear the rhythmic clicking of a bike, slowly spinning to a stop.  An eager voice greets my lady.  Without turning, I know it's the two Morman missionary boys who have been haunting this trail.  Part of me wants to slow my pace so I can overhear this sure-to-be-interesting exchange but I push on.

It's not long and my two boys are next to me, brimming with young eagerness.  My soul is weary of all these efforts to save it.  With a grand, cartoon-like gesture, I point onward and say,  "Boys, you hit me every day.  Keep moving onward.  Someone out there needs you."  I gesture again with the same cartoon-like manner to dismiss them.   I see myself playing the role of guiding angel.   I am giving them encouragement for their quest.  I make a mental note that I might be a little too crazy myself this morning.   My boys look puzzled.    They nod a polite good bye and ride into the sunrise.  I bet they'll stop to save me again tomorrow.

Their departure is bittersweet.  I chide myself for being such a crusty old soul.  All the Latter Day Saints, I've known have been wonderful, salt-of-the-earth type people.  How can I tell them that while they are the salt, I am the earth.  Too much salt isn't good for me.  I've had the honor of attending some of the Sisters gatherings.  Their strong values and sense of community is edifiying.  I envy them their simple belief.  Nothing is ever simple for me.  I am blessed and cursed with more layers of complexity than I can sometimes handle.  I want faith, God, people to be simple.  They never have been.

I start thinking of myself as a spiritual CSI investigator.  From messenger angel to gritty CSI inspector in mere minutes.  I wonder if I've really shaken my head or only thought about it.  I'm suddenly knee deep in murky reality, picking over the carnage for a clue.  I look evil in the eye and live with the jaded pieces of my soul forever changed by what I've seen.  Reality sometimes gives me the worst nightmares.  I flash back to Baby Jane.  Am I more Blanche or Jane?  Darn it, I am both.

I soothe myself by questioning.  The people that I meet, may not be messengers of anything.  That it's all me trying to impose a sense of order and importance on things and events that have none.  I am writing the story of my life with bits and pieces of pure fiction all the while thinking it is true.  Yet, does it matter as long as it feels true to me?  It doesn't matter to a tired yet refreshed me.  I arrive home and take a long cool drink of water.  I return to our bedroom and rid myself of my sweaty clothes.  Before I shower, I make the bed.  I note that I am naked.  This morning making the bed with no clothes on feels right.  I smile.  Writing this blog is just like making the bed with no clothes on.  It seems odd but I'm strangely comfortable.  It is good to be known.  I am ready for what the day will bring.