instead of napping, I wrote this.

Reading and periodically emitting a few "hm"s typical of responding to the profound, my "boss" - more accurately my pastor - evaluates the sheets of lyrics I've handed him and I silently prepare myself for full rejection, eyes on the table.

I'm looking for music to arrange for a small, trained ensemble as a special something at Christmas - not because Christmas is the time when sparkles and showiness are widely accepted and expected but because it's a big deal that God Incarnate came to us and we should make a big deal about it.

I'm looking for him to greenlight the choices so I can move on with the process.  He asked me the day before to make sure I continue to check in with him on this so that he can back me up the whole way and help if someone else tries to stand me down.


He's done reading but the pages are still in his hand when he takes a measured breath and rubs his eyes like a tired, hard-working man.

"Now, I don't mean this in an obnoxious way but..."  I'm prepared to take him at his word because I see no trace of sarcasm.

"...you don't have any theological training; is that correct?"

My shoulders may have slumped further as I said, "Yes," quietly, preparing to be made to feel even smaller.

"And you haven't read the Bible ... all that much?"

He knows I haven't read it in its entirety and that I've slacked in unacceptable ways these past nine years.  I've had my butt properly kicked on the subject to the point where I've made real changes and improvements but it's still a sore spot -- and he knows this.  I say, "Yes," even more quietly because I have nothing to argue.

At this point I'm pulling people in from their lunch breaks to help me start tearing up concrete and going back to blueprints.  Apparently I have no idea what I'm doing.  I felt shocked, actually, after he asked me the second question.  I know I've missed big things that he's pointed out before but to be this wrong that he'll highlight how I don't really know anything I was on the verge of being crushed (especially because it sounds like he's been thinking it for a while and is now completely fed up).

Tossing the sheets back across the table he inquires with muted perplexity, "How are you so good at picking songs with solid content?"



Oh, I see.  It was the classic American Idol deke you were doing there.  Thanks for making me poop my trousers.



Something significant congealed in the back of my mind when he asked this.  It sounds like I should be doing the job I've been doing.  It sounds like I'm well suited for it and that God has prepared me for it.  This is extraordinary news and it ends two and a half years of turmoil.

Still coming out of feeling small I was able to fight the urge to break into a large smile and to try to answer seriously.  It would be easy to shrug off but I wanted to validate what he had said.  I told him my best guess: "Umm... I have really good B.S. radar??"

He nods seriously and says, "Yeah," expecting me to go on, seeing that I've understood what he's told me.

"That wasn't very eloquent," I preface, because I want to try again.  "I can just tell when something isn't true and it bothers me."

This time he nods with deeper understanding and his facial expression tells me something has clicked.  "Right," he says, looking like he's enjoying being stupefied.  I hope we're both stupefied for the same reason, and that is that God is funny and incredible.

Don't take this the wrong way, but...

I'm sitting on the couch watching telly with the boys and thinking about why my head and sinuses hurt. I didn't sleep much last night cos I got home from Toronto late.* The night before I stayed up late because it was Game 3 of the World Series and I was invited out by ladies I really like. The night before that I stayed up late because the boys asked me to stay for their very first all-nighter.

*I'll deal with this asterisk now: I have to say a) I really need a car.. it's not a joke anymore, and b) I'm very grateful for friends who [oblige] me when I need a lift. My Greyhound got to downtown Guelph at 23.45 and city buses quit at 6pm on Sundays. It's an hour walk and last night it was dirty rain and dirty cold. I had two friends who were willing (one offered before I asked) and a third showed up and got me home before midnight. I'm really grateful.


And on my way to work this morning I was reflecting on how I went to Toronto for my skister's bday party. I travelled for a little over five hours and spent about $50 (travel & costume) to be with my sister and her friends for two hours at a time that's inconvenient on a week I can't afford it.


The reason I'm writing is because the phenomenon hit me afresh this morning. Five hours on buses and trains don't matter; money doesn't matter. I love my sister and I wanted to be there. It's hardly a question.


I like these "decisions". And today I'm wondering what other such decisions I've been overlooking lately if this feels new again. I like those things that seem painful or extreme but don't actually feel like anything. (This is probably making far less sense than I think to any one reading this.)


In my last job those decisions abounded because I had a million hundred new and not-new faces every day and I had to stretch so much further to reach them (as "strangers"). My job. Now in my current jaerb it's a little more difficile to go above and beyond but I am on the prowl since before Day One.


I wonder why I want this so much. I wonder why I don't consider that I've done a job properly unless I've done more than I was asked.


I guess I figure if I only do what's required, I could be easily replaced but if I do useful extras then I could be an asset, or better yet -- indispensible. That seems a little messed up... yeah.


I guess that means if I do only what's needed I feel like I've underperformed (read: failed). That's terrible. Wow. Way to bring that out of me, typing-a-blog-post. Hmm.

Let me tell you what happened this week.

On Tuesday we were having a bit of a rough day at work, the boys and I.  When B (5yo) and I were heading back from the sandpit on the outskirts of school property he threw his baseball cap at me - not in anger but in tired,-frustrated-and-bored-boy-ness - and because I didn't see it coming, it hit me directly in the face.

It hurt quite a bit.  I don't get hit often, I don't get hit in the face often and I don't get hit very hard, on purpose in a vulnerable spot often.  It hurt quite a bit.  I stopped in my tracks and put my hand up to my face instinctively.  My eyes were screwed shut and had watered a bit.  Not pleasant.  Right in the lip.

It didn't bleed but it kinda had pus or some watery something come out..I've never had a wound like that.  It swelled up and looked awkward and was painful.  Great.  On that afternoon I was not in the mood to fight with them very much and so I only re-informed him that his was unacceptable behavior.  I probably should have come down harder.



When Dad came home, the incident didn't make it into my day's report, partly because other things came up, partly because I wanted to deal with it myself (and in general I want to appeal to Dad's authority less so they will recognise mine more) and partly because he was having a rough week and therefore not as able to keep up a conversation as well or for as long as he normally can.


The next morning I saw that my lip was still a bit swollen.but that it was starting to heal like one of them weird scratches where it looks like the skin's been stitched back together.  Again, never seen it where the skin pretended like it was broken and needed repair but no blood was drawn. 

I thought it through on my way to work and soon after I'd arrived and briefly said hello to Dad, J (the 9yo) took his attention about something important and I snuck past them into the living room where B was in the arm chair watching a movie.


"Good morning," I said, smiling and he looked surprised and then a bit happy to see me.  I don't think he heard me come in and I know he's unaccustomed to me going out of my way to find him to say hello. 

"Hi," was his small reply, his eyes trained on me and one hand in the bag of dry cereal on his lap.  I think he thought something was up because he couldn't read my body language.

I came right up and asked, "Can I show you something?" and was already kneeling down so we could be at eye-level.  I had to keep plowing forward lest I have a chance to think and then chicken out.

He got excited because he's five and I was going to show him something.  It might have been a frog!  He started to sit up, saying, "Yeah!" in anticipation but then stopped moving when he saw I was coming to meet him.

I was close enough. I pointed to my face, and asked, "Do you know where this came from?"  He answered right away and answered accurately, finally looking away from me back at the television.  He began to fill with dread.


"This is the only reason I ask you not to throw things," I explained.  "It's because I don't want people to get hurt, not because I don't want you to have fun, OK?" I get an imperceptible nod and still no eye-contact.  "So, no more throwing, please," I conclude with a less-soft tone (because it's not a request) and I get up to head back to the kitchen with a pat on the leg.  I hope I left him to think about it but I really don't know how much thinking about he can do.


If I was his dad I would have asked him to look at me while I was speaking and I might even have asked him to say back to me what I had been explaining, just to be sure of comprehension.  But I'm not Dad and I'm still working on being as strict as he.  To be honest, I had it in mind to try grace.  I wanted to see if I might get a different response from them, as the good cop.


As I turn I see Dad had stopped his conversation with J and was craned round the corner to see what what was going on. I had been trying to speak quietly - so B would know it was between us and I wasn't getting him in trouble with Dad - but I probably wasn't quiet enough.  Dad's face was intense: about 65% concerned, 25% prepared to be annoyed or fly off the handle and 10% perplexed.

I walked past and he asked what happened.  Irrespective of how much he'd heard, he understood what type of conversation it was, so all I needed to say was that I had been hit yesterday and it had left a welt.  Dad's stare got a little more intense if you can believe it.  He didn't even say anything.  He just looked at me (or through my head) while he was possibly seething and I was desperately trying to read his expression. 

It might have been that he wanted further explanation.  It might have been that he was plain disappointed.  It might have been that he was livid and I was gonna get it.  OR it may have been a deke and nothing was wrong at all.  Really couldn't tell.  At a point, I forfeit the staring contest and shrug & exhale a "what are you getting at?" gesture because I was ready to do anything to make the glaring stop.

He goes back to whatever he was discussing with J and emits a "huh" that's rich between the lines. A moment later, he looks back up at me with the same angryish stare and now it's a sort of delayed "Really??" on his face. I wonder if he doesn't like my method.  (He's allowed to not like it: he's the parent.) I cave.  I need to know what's going on. 

"Does that face mean you wish I had told you yesterday?"  I thought perhaps it was the concealing and then robbing him of the opportunity to have a timely response that was the problem.

"Nope; that face means I wanna kill 'im," and with that, some steam had been let off and he softened.

So he'll let the incidence of a different method slide.  Good.  If my method doesn't connect that's fine but I did want to try.  I wanted B to see a hurt that looks scarier than the bruise your brother might have gotten when you pushed a doorknob into his torso.  (This happened on Friday.)  He honestly looked like he felt guilty when he saw my face up close.  I caught him stealing peeks at it later that morning as well.

I thought Dad was still deciding whether he would go into the living room and follow up with B.  I thought he had become incensed* at the understanding that one of his children had hurt someone.


He just let it go.  I don't know what was said in my absence but it didn't come up again.  And B stopped throwing things, after two reminders that day.  It's tricky: I don't want to make Dad out to be an ogre, but neither do I want to come down hard on the kids so that they learn to be afraid and discouraged instead of learning what behavior is not acceptable and why.  Sigh. 

He's a very good father and I don't know very much about parenting.




Well... I've sat here for twenty minutes trying to remember the greater story I wanted to weave this into and it's gone.  So, the post ends here.

*incense (verb, used with object)
to inflame with wrath; make angry; enrage

Origin: 
1400-50: late Middle English incensen < Latin incēnsus; replacing Middle English encensen < Anglo-French < Latin, as above