Learning and the Brain(wave)

Packed into conference ballroom like sardines please don’t sit beside me

S p r a w l materials twist and e x p a n d b o d y m a s s like over-inflated balloon animal to take up more s p a c e

Monotone

Speaker

Drones

Scientific

                                                                                                                                     Latin

                                                                                                                                                                               Blather

Tag itchiness driving me batty must tear it out stiff legs aching tingling switching positions yet again

Miniature gnome banging rubber mallet staccato on my spine

Buzz

Buzz

Mur

No space to rotate lap to write

Screens at diagonals; speaker in between

Where to turn my head? Speaker motioning presentation slide changing caught in between. Missing both and hand is Cramping

Snack break

No snack

At least caffeine

New session must find good seat close to speaker but not in middle slides on sides again

Brain Gym. Yes! Cross Crawl Cross Crawl. Energy flowing to my head

Arms legs feet hands all alive and awake again thank you kind teacher

Where are the notes?

Why isn’t he following the notes?

                                                       Jumping around

                                                                                                                         Topic to topic

                                                                                         No preview

                                                                                                                                                                     Going too fast

Stick to the notes! Stick to the notes! Stick to the notes! Stick to the notes! Stick to the notes! Stick to the notes!

Fifteen minute r e p r i e v e

Bliss is a stroll to Capitol Hill breeze blows lusty and light green skirts of maples

Gusty spring songs sway Sycamores

Glowing brides of brilliant white azalea bathe in May sun rays

Medians scream STOP. So I do. Grasping nature’s outstretched hand, I look listen smell taste feel breathe

No longer part of conference group but citizen of larger

Association weaving between stately trees scampering squirrels

Church bells toll

Breath time over

Unnatural perfumes doused generously strangle

Pervasive static

Internal tuner on the fritz

Only 10:15 am

Las mariposas del alma

My ears must deceive me

Butterflies of the soul

Neuroscientists spouting brain poetry?

Neurons synapses firing now; Light increases ammunition

Sweet Mnemosyne births muses to encode brain music in my cells

Light fire light fire light fire light fire light fire light fire light fire light fire light fire

4:40 Saturday

Afternoon

Final session

Teacher teaching no

                                                                                                                             thing

                                                                          Asking     obvious              questions

                                                                                  Trying       to hold              on

                                                                    To thread              Un  r av   e l  in   g

                                                                                                        D r i f t i n g

                                                                                                  Let

                                                                                                                                    Go

The Nature of Parenting

“But Gage is so good. You don’t know how easy you have it.” By the time she takes a breath after the first phrase, my thumbnail is already poised beneath the tip of her chin – first position stance for Pez popping her pretty little neck. With a flick of my thumb, her head snaps back and detaches from her neck in one fluid motion. Unlike my Tweety Bird dispenser, a strawberry tile candy does not pop out. Still, I am gratified.

As I return to reality, I see my sweet little angel mentally tallying his points. I look down and see his fingers drumming together in front of him in Gargamellian satisfaction. I double-take and realize he’s actually posing his tiny hands in pious modesty. Little imp.

Comments such as these are tossed my way quite often by mothers who find their children’s behavior less than desirable, especially in comparison to my child. Of course, the only rational explanation for this MUST be that my child, and therefore Shane and I, have been genetically blessed. How else could a two-year-old interact with others politely, fear the quiet chair sufficiently to turn his attitude around by the time I get to “two,” and clean up after himself? God must think we are something special.

Get real! I have three hypotheses that might just trump your magic wand theory. One, might it be the fact that you are comparing your child to my child IN FRONT of the children in the first place that is causing a bit of dissonance in your sphere? God forbid the poor kid has a sibling. With those life-long comparisons, she doesn’t stand a chance!

Let me be fair. Maybe it’s me and not you after all. We might be looking at an old fashioned case of nature versus nurture. However, we seem to have different perspectives on nature, so let’s start there.

Intelligent Design. Maybe God did play a part in Gage being an “easy-going” kid, or as we fondly refer to him – our little stoner. As I reflect on my life thus far, I can promise you that this would be due to no merit of my own. Maybe it was an act of natural selection. After 32 years of being a royal pain in his divine tuckus, maybe God wanted to provide my child a fighting chance at life without a mother incarcerated or institutionalized for offspring-related crimes. I am neither a patient soul, nor one who tolerates high levels of idiocy. My God is an efficient God. I have every reason to believe that in forecasting his resource commitments, it was far more productive to give me a “good natured” kid versus trying to clean up the carnage that would surely result from my raising a difficult kid. In that case, I’m not the lucky one. Gage is. Give credit where credit is due.

Then again, might there be an iota of a chance that even a sliver of my child’s civilized behavior is a reflection of my parenting skills? Maybe there’s a little something to that structure, consistency, and discipline that you tsk tsk so often? “Kids will be kids.” Yeah, and llamas will be llamas but that doesn’t mean I’ll allow said llama to use my floor as a spittoon! I can promise you that while maintaining order is not as overwhelmingly chaotic and exhausting as say cleaning up my child’s every mess for him and succumbing to his disrespectful demands, it certainly is not easy. Loving my child enough to meet him where he is and to help him grow into a happy, responsible, contributing adult is not easy. Doing the best for my child is not easy.

So, you can go on using the fact that I am lucky to have such a “good” kid to excuse yourself from your own parenting gaps. Just remember this. One day your spoiled little ill-mannered princess is going to get her heart broken by some shaggy haired frat boy. She’s going to come crying to my little “boy-next-door” whom she’s been stomping all over since the day they met. When things don’t go quite the way she (or you) had planned, don’t come whining to me. It’s just his nature. I have nothing to do with it. Kids will be kids.

And I’m not loaning you my magic wand.

I Can't Change My Mold..no no no no no

My innards are curdling.

My innards are curdling, and a volatile foam is bubbling up my esophagus. I believe my pancreas has begun to swallow itself in a quest for self-preservation. If you listen closely, you can hear its pathetic little shrieks. My mouth is dry; my teeth are sweating. I’m sure it will all be over in moments. Cause of death – expiration by consumption beyond expiration recommendation (i.e., death by mold).

It is all Shane’s fault. Well, his and my mother’s. They find me irresponsibly wasteful because I do not believe in the practice of “eating around the mold.” I find them dreadfully cheap.

“That is a perfectly good biscuit. Just tear off the corner [read – aquamarine, fuzzy spot of death] and eat the good part.”

Were this the appropriate action, food would not come with an expiration date, and gourmet mold would not merely pertain to cheese and antibiotics. In essence, it would just be regular mold. Each time I bring up this important little nugget of truth, they look at each other and roll their eyes. Shane insists that I am ridiculous and pats himself on the back whenever he saves the brown, squishy banana or week old milk from the torment of living a life in vain. That is fine with me as long as he understands that he will be consuming a double portion of ilk because he’s going to have to ingest my serving too. He even brought home a New York Times article supporting his rationale that expiration dates are part of a USDA c-y-a conspiracy. No, I do not care how they do it in other countries. I will only use that information to cross said countries off the “places I’d like to visit without fear of death” list.

Born to a crazy mother. Married to a crazy man. The way things are going, I am liable to be left in the hands of a deranged undertaker with a bountiful supply of expired embalming fluid or crematorial compost heap.

This morning I was starving. All I wanted [read – all I know how to cook] was a fried egg sandwich. I had made peace with the fact that we were out of sliced bread. Shane is overdue on his weekly Costco run. Yes, you read that correctly. Shane makes a weekly Costco run to buy perishable food in bulk. Hear that? It’s those tipsy angels laughing at me again.

My only option was a yummy whole wheat naan pocket. As I pulled the pocket out of the bag, my heart plummeted and my gag reflex soared. There at the very end of my pocket was the tell tale fuzzy dollop of bacteria. My God, why hast thou forsaken me?

By this time, my eggs were already cooking, so I couldn’t turn back. I forewent all rational thought. An egg sandwich simply cannot exist without the sandwich part of the sandwich. So, haz-mat suit ready, I tore off the tainted area and a good deal of its circumference. Many people are not lucky enough to know at what point they truly become their mothers. They just look in the mirror one day, and there she is staring back at them with a crooked smile and a wicked gleam in her eye. I have the date, the time, and the horrid visual on record now.

Fear not. My senses did not take flight entirely. I set the oven on broil to kill off any and all vagrant spores, and I slathered on enough boysenberry jam to camouflage white specks of flour that might be mistaken for burgeoning bacteria.

So here I am…dying a slow, torturous death. Yes, I’m sure it has nothing to do with the queso, pollo Acapulco, and sangria I had last night.

Please donate the remnants of my body to a nonprofit whose mission is to eradicate food-borne illnesses. Also, please see to it that my mother and husband do not receive an iota of my life insurance payout. I wouldn’t want them to be forced to stop pinching pennies at my expense.

Better than a Whoopee Cushion

I am beginning to suspect that my purpose in life is to satisfy God’s sense of humor. It seems that whenever he needs a good chuckle, he pulls me out of his desk drawer, winds me up, and watches me carry out the oxymoronic actions with which he programmed me. Yes, I am his jumbo shrimp. His same difference. His business in the front, party in the back glorified mullet. I am a contradiction.

Fortunately, my God is a merciful God. I think that’s why my life thus far has been fairly absent of tragedy. God might feel guilty if he laughed at me and allowed bad things happen to my life. If the paradox that is me ceases to entertain the cosmos, stand clear. Danger is looming.

Let’s begin with the introvert with dimples. Amongst those who know me, there is no confusion concerning my aversion to small talk, medium talk, or any other size of talk, especially if feelings are involved. I’m happiest hanging out in my own head. Always have been. Have you ever noticed that people with dimples are expected to be charming and approachable? It’s like, “I bestow upon you these cute little facial deformities so that those deformed of spirit can seek you and feel normal in your presence.” Therefore, on Heaven game nights, the angels gorge on popcorn and beer while they watch God play a good old game of “don’t keep away.” This game involves rounding up every socially inept, personal space invading, boundary ignoring, needy headcase and sending them to my door. You see, God also forgot to program me with the ability to say no to those in “need.” Instead he encased me in a permanent force field with blinking red lights and a bullhorn that screams “I’m here for you.” Nothing will turn this off. Just in case there was any chance of my figuring out the code to deactivate the system, my creator infused in me a fear of Matthew 25:41-46:

"Then he will say to those on his left, 'Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.'

"They also will answer, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?'

"He will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.'

"Then they will go away to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life."

Fan-freaking-tastic. The one time I decide to tell one of these people to refrain from drowning me in their abyss of need, I’m going to find out on Judgment Day that it was Jesus H. Christ in outcast’s clothing.

Because that comical combo wasn’t amusement enough, I was blessed with the voice of a member of the Lullaby League. In college, I shared a phone line with a roommate dating a guy 11 hours away. Needless to say, he heard my voice on the line quite often. Oddly, we never actually met. One day Laura got this great idea to ask her boyfriend what he thought I looked like.

“Blonde, tall, bubbly cheerleader type.”

Um, dye my hair, toss me a pair of 5” stilettos, and give me a personality transplant, and you called it, big guy. While this might have been a fun trick in college, voice de Smurfette was quite detrimental during the long-distance job search. Isn’t everyone keen to offer a prestigious position based on a ten minute telephone interview with a ten year old? “Hello, is your mother available?”

The ultimate joke, God’s Big Top Surprise, comes in the form of the Type A perfectionista with a less than desirable attention span. Really? A control freak who can’t remember what she’s trying to control while she’s trying to control it? That’s just rude.

This delightful absurdity is most easily observed in the kitchen. I do not cook. I am not exaggerating. My husband’s favorite story involves an egg that was in my fridge when he left for the Peace Corps. When he returned 27 months later, said egg had not moved an inch. We know this because the egg had petrified and glued itself to the little egg cup inside the door of the fridge. Removal of said egg required an interesting range of tools and a strong stomach – neither of which I own.

I do not cook because I do not accept imperfection. Why cook if there is a chance that the dish is not going to earn praise from the masses? Mediocrity is failure. Unfortunately, inattention to detail does not fare well in tandem with the notion of cooking perfection. Exhibit A – Jen’s Famous Cookie Tops.

I’ve been quite self-absorbed lately – okay, even more self-absorbed than usual. I decided to spend some quality time with my darling son. He and his daddy love to cook together on Saturday mornings. I can hear the laughter from my room, and the sweet smell of coffee and bacon are a beautiful reason to rise. I tiptoe to the kitchen to quietly observe this warm bonding experience unnoticed. It is so obvious that they are enjoying themselves. So I figured, how hard can it be?

I’ve also been trying to alleviate some of my self-inflicted perfectionistic pressure, so I allowed myself to buy the cookies that are already mixed. You just slice them up and put them in the oven. Besides, the fun part is icing the cookies! I spent 15 minutes in the grocery story pouring over icings and sprinkles. I wanted to tell everyone in the aisle that I was about to embark on a sweet cooking adventure with my little boy. All of the other mothers who were too busy for such merriment would lavish me with awe and bask in my June Cleaver glow. Content in my modesty, I refrained from my announcement. These women were probably already beating themselves up; adding to their insecurities just wouldn’t be the Christian thing to do.

I hurried home and began cooking at once. I used our best cookie sheet and found a matching spatula. Mind you, I’m not sure that this shiny silver spatula was intended for transferring cookies, but as I said, it matched perfectly. Bonus points for style, right? Did I mention it was shiny? I dug out a few baking racks I had seen used at one point or another and decided that there would surely be a significant correlation between the quantity of baking apparatus used and the quality of the cookies. I pulled out two cutting boards for good measure.

The cookies made it to the oven without spectacle, and there was nothing left to do but wait. So I did. When the timer went off, I noticed that the cookies were quite white, so I gave them some more time. Two minutes later, more of the same. Seven minutes later, I identified a sliver of what might be considered golden brown, so I removed the cookies. Better to be safe than sorry when it comes to doneness – E coli concerns and such.

Now the average person, i.e., the person who is not well-equipped with baking racks, would likely let the cookies wallow on the baking sheet. I, on the other hand, had baking racks, so I prepared to make the transfer. The first cookie fell through the rack as soon as I placed it on the metal. The second cookie met its fate before it left the spatula. By cookie number six, I began to wonder about the fact that there were still four cookies left where four should no longer have been. How could that be? Somehow, only the top of each cookie was leaving the cookie sheet. As fate has it, it was at this moment that my husband walked in, looked at the pan, scraped up the cookie bottom goo, ate it, and left. All without cracking a smile. I was impressed by his sensitivity until the next moment when he reappeared with a digital camera in hand.

There was a time when this last action would have resulted in a man’s ears longing to be filled with cookie goo as opposed to the wrath to which they were being subjected. Instead, I laughed and stepped out of the way so he could procure a better shot. Gage was elated by Mommy’s Special Cookie Tops made just for him, and he even managed to smile when he nearly broke his tooth on the first bite. I think I heard the giggling of tipsy angels in his laughter.

Working mother. Loving disciplinarian. Flaky perfectionist. Rigid free spirit. Realistic Idealist.

Utopian Utensils

Four words. Kitchenaid Dish Dryer Rack. I think I just saw God.

At this moment I am rummaging through the fridge for snacks that require non-dishwasher-safe tableware. I’m not hungry. I just want to do dishes.

Gage has two grandmothers who go by the same name. There’s Granna who likes to perch Gage on a stool in her kitchen as she giddily flitters from counter to stove to refrigerator and back for hours creating delicious vittles to satiate the hunger she swears exists despite his wide eyed horror and the hand clamped over his mouth as he shakes his head slothily from side to side. Thick slabs of sticky bacon, lard-embellished biscuits, the equivalent of a stick of butter strangely calling to mind the taste of fresh baked cookies, cheesy potatoes – everything listed on the Cardiologists of America’s watch list plus a few things they can’t even fathom exist. Think state fair fare. At the end of this gorge-fest, she efficiently stows the troughs and power tools in the dishwasher and swipes the counters clean.

Then there’s Granna who avoids Mommy and Daddy’s kitchen at all costs. Granted she makes the customary biscuits, apples, and bacon breakfast to earn her room and board, but in comparison to the frenzied glee observed in her own kitchen, her performance in our kitchen is a bit deflated. And you know what? That’s really okay. I will be the first to say that there is not a person on God’s green earth who can hold a ladle to my mom’s epicurean expertise, and my husband would serve me right up as the sacrificial lamb for a strip of her bacon. We just prefer to indulge at her house.

My mom recently told my sister and my sister told me – because that’s what we do in our family…confide in one another and turn around to tell the other…not to get into anyone’s business…just to “give you a heads-up”…”You know Daddy says he hated the gift you gave him. I’m not telling you to hurt your feelings. I just thought that might be helpful information the next time you decide to ‘bake him a cake’” – that our house makes her nervous because of all the rules. Duly noted.

We don’t have a list of rules and regulations per se, but I admit that we are a bit particular. Yes, I said “we.” Lest you believe I’m the only tightly wound critter in this house, meet my husband, Mr. Closet arranged in descending color spectrum - light switches must be in uniform position before leaving a room - dishwasher must be rearranged prior to running - not all dishes belong in the dishwasher husband of mine.

Margaret Wise Brown puts it best in her description of Scuppers the Sailor Dog:

In his ship, Scuppers had a little room. In his room Scuppers had
a hook for his hat and a hook for his rope and a hook for his
handkerchief and a hook for his pants and a hook for his spyglass
and a place for his shoes and a bunk for a bed to put himself in.

At night Scuppers threw the anchor into the sea, and he went down
to his little room. He put his hat on the hook for his hat, and his
rope on the hook for his rope, and his pants on the hook for his
pants, and his spyglass on the hook for his spyglass, and he put
his shoes under the bed and got into his bed, which was a bunk, and
went to sleep.

A place for everything, and everything in its place. And not just any place; the appropriate place. I am deeply indebted to the inventors of such wonders of logic as the little cubby under my steering column that was made solely for the purpose of snuggling my owner’s manual ever so gently and making it a snap to locate in an emergency. Oh, and the guitar case. A case that is shaped just like its contents. Brilliant! You never have to waste time wondering “now where shall I store my guitar?” or “now where did that guitar get to? I can’t remember which box I stuck it in!” I can honestly say that I have likely contributed to the salary of many an employee at the various container stores I have frequented over the years.

After eight years of cohabitation, I have finally mastered the fine art of dishwasher etiquette according to Mr. Rogers - Shane not Fred, though they both have an affinity for shoes. Only dishes, glasses, everyday flatware, butter knives, and my as-seen-on-TV Ginsu knives (i.e., kitchen tools of rapid amputation) are welcome in the dishwasher. In addition to the grown-up knives, pots, pans, wine glasses, Tupperware, plastic cups, cutting boards, and cooking utensils are also registered on the national Do Not Machine Wash list. For the love of God, why do we even have a dishwasher!

Still, because I am vaguely aware that proper attention to dishwashing was finagled into our vows somewhere, I follow orders. I am a woman of my word. We also vowed to simply leave the army of dishwasher averse items on a towel next to the sink to dry until God sends us a miraculous vessel designed for such a task as this.

Enter the candy apple red Kitchenaid Dish Dryer Rack. 6.8 pounds of “heavy duty wire and rugged plastic. Angled drainboard keeps countertops clean. Soft, nonslip feet protect surfaces. The detachable flatware caddy attaches to either side of the dish rack.” A caddy! Just for flatware! EITHER SIDE!!!! Jesus does love me! The meek and the mildy obsessed shall inherit the earth. Let’s just hope by “earth” he means a sanitized, organized parallel universe closely resembling earth.

Mr. Fix It and The Boogie Man

Last night, Gage’s new Mr. Fix It Airplane spent the night on the floor – not in its assigned space on the shelf, not in its original box, not even on a proximal shelf. Mr. Fix It Airplane slept on the floor. On its side. And I don’t even know where the ill-conceived battery powered toddler drill and injury-by-orifice-penetration bits were located.

I know. I know. He’s two. We’re all sleeping. The slobberific boogie man is away on assignment. Don’t hate. I am sure he exists. I imagine him to be a 7 foot 2 inch Scandinavian, blond and pale with an impish grin much like my friend Serge who bided his working hours terrorizing my every anal retentive moment. It wasn’t his size that put me on edge; when you are 5’ 4” and three quarters, it’s kind of nice to have someone around who can water the plant poised atop your book shelf and fetch the errant projectile that nosedives in the small space between the desk and the window.

No, physically Serge is a gentle giant. It’s the maniacal eyes that accompany that thin-lipped grin. Serge’s nonchalant “hey, how’s it going” would be punctuated by a 3 second silent reign of terror. I would notice one corner of his mouth rise a tad higher than the other side, and the madness would begin. My eyes would be drawn to his translucent orbs as if by magnetic force; despite my greatest efforts, I could not turn away. Then the hypnotic spirals would begin and time would stand still. His x-ray vision would search the most vulnerable area of my brain – the control center – and then it was over. We’d return to the present, and I knew without a doubt that it was on. I would spend the next two hours lost in an I Spy hell searching for the one thing that had been altered whilst I had stepped away for a cup of coffee. A figurine moved 2.5” to the right. One blind raised just a hair higher than the others. A business card turned upside down. If there is indeed a boogie man that preys on the obsessive compulsive, he is most definitely a 7 foot 2 inch Scandinavian.

Aside from Mr. Fit It Airplane, everything else was in its place, so why is this such a monumental occasion? Considering that I had to talk myself into allowing this total diversion of order and government to occur, and I thought about it more than once in the night, this is a big deal.

I am a control freak. We’re not talking June Cleaver – domesticity is not a passion of mine. We’re talking Reese Witherspoon in Election, Adrian Monk, and Monica Geller all mixed together with a generous helping of Type A+ meets OCD on the side. Hmm. I think this character needs a name as to protect my identity. Let’s call this anal retentive persona – as if I have another side that wouldn’t fit under this description – well, what should we call her? What is the most stuffy, constipated, rigid, frigid name that exists in the human language?

Of course! We’ll call her Martha. Aside – My apologies to all of the Martha’s I love. You are truly wonderful women. On the other hand, this might be a good time for a little introspection. Martha as in the Felix Unger of the Biblical odd couple Martha and Mary. As not to bore you with a full sermon, here’s the long and short of it.

Martha and Mary are sisters. Jesus comes to hang out for a while. Martha plays the perfect housekeeper out of respect for Jesus and his boys. She cooks. She cleans. She primps. She polishes. I wasn’t there that day, but I would bet a lot of money – sorry, God – that not one single Mr. Fix It Airplane accessory was out of place. Then again, Martha lived with her sister and was a bit of a spinster. I’m guessing there were not too many kids to worry about, just cats. Lots and lots of hirsute kitties with names like Sampson and Esau. Okay then. There wasn’t a single cat toy in the middle of the floor or in the dust bunnies behind the stone futon. Martha put that other Martha – pre-prison, of course – to shame. She didn’t have a prayer of outdoing the present day Martha once she earned some street cred by donning that shabby chic prison poncho on release day.

As I mentioned, Martha lives with her sister Mary who, quite frankly, was really beginning to chafe on Martha. During Jesus’ stay, Mary groveled at the man’s feet and mooned at him with every word that fell from his mouth.

“God is good.”

“Oh, Jesus, you are so smart.”

“You are the dirt beneath my thonged sandals.”

“Oh, Jesus, tell me more about my sinful existence and my inevitable spiral into hell.” Mary just could not get enough of what this guy was selling.

As any self-loathing shrinking violet is wan to do when her red rose of a sister is acting the fool and getting the attention of every man in the room, Martha seethed. This wasn’t a “woe-is-me, life isn’t fair” kind of seething. This was a “screw you, little harlot. I’m telling!” kind of seething. And so she did. Martha pulled Jesus aside for a little talk. I imagine it went something like this.

“Hello, Master Jesus. I hope you have been enjoying your stay at our home. Rest assured I have done everything within my power to make you feel comfortable.”

“Why yes, Martha. Thank you for the impeccable accommodations. There is nothing like a fresh bar of rose water soap to lighten the load of thinking about my impending death by crucifixion.”

“Yes, well I’m glad you enjoyed it. I could tell you had used it by the wrapping that was left on the floor. No worries though. I picked it up and disposed of it. I mean, your time is far too important to worry about things such as picking up after yourself, you being the Son of God and all.”

“Peace be with you, Martha.”

“Yes, peace. About that. You may have noticed that I’ve been quite busy throughout the duration of your stay. Of course, I’m pleased to do it, but I wish I could say the same for my sister. I’ve noticed she’s been reclining a lot lately and butting in on your conversations. I’m sure you would be more comfortable if she was fulfilling her role of hostess by helping out a little around the house. I know I would be much more at peace. Might you have a word with her?”

You know the rest of the story. Jesus caps Martha with the business about how she is the one in the wrong because she’s too busy to follow God. Blah blah blah. Less neatening; more worshipping. Honestly though? Name one person who enjoys falling prostrate into a face-full of dried cheese crumbs and dusty cat hairballs whilst seeking the will of God.

So in an effort to see the Jesus in everyone and to treat them accordingly, I try to leave every space as it began. If you were able to fall to your knees in prayer three feet due north and two feet to the left of my front door, by God you should feel confident that that precise spot will always be awaiting you in a similar state. If a Scandinavian boogie man cased my house yesterday without tripping over Mr. Fix It Airplane, he should feel confident of having the same luxury when he returns today.