My mom, whom I love very much, is hanging around my office today and making me nuts.  Yes, she goes to church here.  Yes, it’s nice of her to volunteer.  But, really, how much would you enjoy your mother suggesting you get your hair out of your eyes or offering to help tidy up your office while you’re trying to do your job?  You wouldn’t enjoy it?  Even a little bit?  Yeah, that’s what I thought.

The pastor, in the meantime, is hanging around the construction workers.  They’re installing something or another, and he keeps trying to help.  They carried in a large window glass a minute ago, a really large one.   There were two guys balancing it on canvas straps.  The pastor ran over to grab a corner and “help” them carry it.   They nearly dropped the glass, and he left fingerprints.   I had to fetch him from the construction area when someone came in to pray with him before heading off for surgery.   The kid with the bad tattoos was stifling laughter as I led the pastor away.

I’m unusually sad lately and grumpy as fuck.  Lately, too, I’ve been reading something somewhere in the Bible.  Have I mentioned this?  I can never ever find things in the Bible.  I can quote things as well as the next girl who went to fifteen years of vacation Bible school and eight summers of church camp, but I can never flip to the actual page.  The internet is my best friend in this regard and generally keeps me from looking like a worse Christian than I am.   At any rate, I’ve been reading all these nauseating Bibley bits about being joyful and not grumbling, and they’ve been troubling me, wherever they may be located.

I’ve mentioned before that I’m Facebook friends with some church kids.   One kid, the one who just started college and who wants to be a youth minister, writes all these things that sound exactly like the things I said and my friends said when we were nineteen too.  It’s a balm to my aged soul that kids these days are still obsessing over Fight Club, incidentally.   He doesn’t, like most members of his peer group, quite buy church.  He sees the web of individual egos and agenda as trite barriers to genuine faith.  And, you know what, a decade later so do I.  Clean the fucking carpet.  Don’t clean the fucking carpet.  What does it have to do with the cause of Christ?   And why must we talk so fucking much about it?

The difference is, of course, I’ve stopped looking around for some church that’s better about all this, that doesn’t worry over nonsense.  Perhaps there’s a kind of maturity there, in the realization that wherever you are the people are the problems remain the same, more or less .  But I haven’t yet learned the knack of being content with this realization, of encouraging myself and others to do a little bit better instead of screaming about how lousy we all are.

Despite my overwhelming cynicism and the general tenor of this blog, I’m actually a pretty fucking cheerful person.   To wit: I have both Cheerios and glitter in my desk drawer.  And ribbon!  I challenge you find an actual uncheerful person who maintains that sort of arrangement.  I challenge you!  But lately I’ve been much less cheerful than usual.  There are some compelling reasons for that, I think.

I’m trying to do something, or some things, about all this lousy lousiness, to work my way out of this funk I’m in.   I’m pretty sure that means I’m going to have start writing nicer things here.  Blech.

But first, I have to run off to Nashville for the weekend.  And maybe split up Joey Santiago’s marriage.  We’ll see how it goes.

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