Water Water Everywhere
Weird – only one Sunday skipped from church, and somehow I couldn’t immediately conjure up the old routinely as perfectly as I would have liked.
For lunch mostly: everyone teased Joe, Mom started singing “Kumbaya” because we were all together again, discussing Linnea needing eyeglasses, the weather, arguing about the fate of Floozie…
“I’m sending her to a farm!” Rose declared vehemently throughout the afternoon.
And… Rose refusing to model for Carrie’s and Lucia’s business purposes.
“I’m going to make you look like a Burberry model,” Carrie cajoled.
“NO!”
All over a caramel chocolate cake.
The rain we hoped for arrived while OLeif and Carrie discussed apps, measurements, etc. I spent some time discussing Mormonism and Catholicism with Francis and Linnea on the porch as the rain drilled harder. Mom and Dad joined us to piece out more complicated church issues as three deer tentatively approached from across the street.
“Well, hello, sweet things,” Mom called to them.
“Bye, deer,” Dad added as they bounded off. “Be safe.”
– No, they actually don’t live in the country. –
After an episode of “Jon and Kate Plus Eight”, Linnea joined Gretyl for some cabin-cleaning behind the school. [They really don’t live in the country.] I’m not exactly sure how that two-story has lasted over the past hundred thirty years, or whatever it’s been, but Linnea feels its her necessary duty to sweep it up and scrub it down on occasion. And so they did. Carrie worked worked worked – busy busy busy. Francis attended a Philmont reunion. And the rest of us thundered the old slug through wine country – mist, hills, and Klondike. Silica sand, Joe’s twelve-skip rocks – he’s got a solid arm – and cactus; [I’m really not sure how they ended up here…]. Meanwhile, Rose went rummaging in the woods. She returned with a green thing trailing dirt in hand.
“Are you bringing back a tree?” Mom asked her.
“Yup,” Rose looked smugly at the small pine, which she added to her sandstone collection ready for transport.
“That’s a federal offense,” Dad told her.
The rain had just split over us again as we entered the van to the crack of thunder in the northwest. But Rose wasn’t bothered, as we stuck our hands out the windows and let the rain slap at them like ice, cruising with the sounds of a rocket ship back to Weldon Spring.
Lucia, who arrived right before another downpour, threatened Rose with various forms of death if she didn’t agree to model, all of which Rose also refused. Tennessee Coca-Cola [the other lanky prospect] was also apparently “very busy all week”. No one liked to be photographed.
Linnea was mailed out to youth group, and Mom and Joe picked up Chinese.
Sundays are good.
And apparently I’ve been watching too much Korean TV.
I have…
Thought of the Day: Post-Dated 6.24.12
When my church serves communion once a month, I try to keep my eyes on my lap. Watching people is distracting from the sacrament. I’m not saying that you can’t watch people and be reminded of the Creator and his endless sense of creativity in our bubbled little lives, thus being extendedly reminded of how he snatched us crinkly little spiders from the yawning fires of hell — Presbyterian — but most of the time I find it better to push the eyes down.
This Sunday I wasn’t so soapy about it.
Right in front of me sits a young girl in blonde pigtails tied with long pink-with-white-polka-dot ribbons. I’ve never seen her before. In a church of around 300, that’s less common. She’s sitting with her dad — a browned Marine-type. She turns a closed-lip smile to him, big brown eyes, and I get the idea she’s an extra-mini version of Shawn Johnson. They look just the same.
I take the bread. It squeaks in my teeth. That’s never happened before. Gluten-free. That’s new too.
The seat in front of the girl with pigtails is claimed by one of the fashionable-gym-moms in the congregation. Her almost white-blonde hair is obviously getting in the way. With one hand she twists it to the side and spins it into a knot, without thinking, that actually stays.
The “wine”.
Churchmen will go back and forth with you all day over how the “wine” should actually be wine, or that it could be grape juice, or even cherry Kool-Aid. We serve grape juice. Talk to my dad, and he’ll offer the argument that wine in Jesus’ day was closer to modern grape juice. But I don’t know, so I can’t spout.
I stare in my cup. The reflection of rafters, windows, and lights shimmer in the dark drink. A tiny church in a cup. It snakes with the pulse of my fingers.
I realize that the girl probably braided her pigtails by herself. The part is uneven — madly so. I wonder if her mom’s around.
This is why I keep my head down during communion.