66: Really, What WAS I Thinking?

I am to write about the worst meal I've had as if it's happening now. What follows is not entirely factual, but it is true.

I still like to look at her, and I still wonder at the marvelous things that happen in her mind. She is really beautiful, even though this dinner is more than awkward.

We broke up a few days ago. I can almost hear the older me telling the me today that this is a really bad idea.

Still, we made the reservations for dinner, and I had the tickets to the Homecoming dance, and we were still friends, so why not have one last after-breakup date?

At least, that's what I was thinking. 

In case you were wondering. 

You know, like "What was he thinking?"

I love her smile, but I hate that smile. I wish she'd just frown and tell me she thinks this is a bad idea too. Instead, she puts on that smile, that pity smile, that smile that says that she's having a rotten time, but she's sure that I must be having a pretty good time because I'm with her, so she'll do me a huge favor.

I should just take her home now. Still, we've ordered and leaving now would be rude to the waitress and the restaurant.

This is really uncomfortable, but not just because there's not much to say. I mean, there really isn't much to say, and when I try to make small talk, she puts on that smile again. It is uncomfortable because of that, but it's not just that.

The thing is, I see here again, as I saw a few days ago when we agreed to stop dating, that something inside me was dying. No, that something was dead.

Inside me, there used to be a growing a kind of hope, a kind of vision of myself, a concept of my life that had her in it. I remember what it felt like to have her head rest against my chest. I thought how much I loved her artist's mind, her way of seeing shadows or lines in a way I had never imagined. I thought how much I delighted even in how she sat, with her hands on her lap, palms up as if meditating.

And now, I realized it was gone. There are plenty of reasons for us to break up (we can start with the smile), and I'm not sorry we broke up. I still like her, and it bothers me that we can't even make small talk now.

I tell her that I think this is kind of a bad idea. She admits that she came only because she kind of felt sorry for me. I tell her not to be, that I'll be OK.

And I will be.

 

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

65: More Than Illusion

The prompt is to write about Valentine's Day without using these words/phrases: Valentine's Day, Cupid, love, roses, flowers, hearts, or February.

There's the illusion:

  the boxes of candy, 

  the flirty glances, 

  the giant stuffed teddy bears,

  the greeting cards, 

  the idea that the first kiss is the best,

  the fear that it all dies when it gets old.

And then there's the reality,

  and the reality is so much better

  that it's worth skipping the fantasy

  and searching for it.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

64: Making a Difference

The prompt is to write about something worth saving.

There was a small church in a small village in the African country of Ghana.

In the village and the region around, people were dying from disease and accidents. The church invited doctors from a nearby clinic to speak with them about what they could do to stop the needless deaths.

This might be a good time to point out that this particular church in Ghana pities the churches in America. We have so much, they say, that it gets in the way of being faithful disciples.

They might have a point. An American church, if it noticed a large number of deaths in their community, might not call doctors in to talk about the problem, might not look for something to do. The members of the American church would probably have the means to write a check to the Red Cross or to a local hospital. And when they wrote those checks, they'd miss out on something electrifying.

The church in Ghana didn't have the option of philanthropy. They had to deal with the deaths seemingly without all the tools they needed. All they had was the love of Christ and a commitment to the service of God.

When they talked with the doctors for the clinic, they couldn't ask how much money the doctors needed. They could only ask what they could do.

The doctors talked with them about hygiene, but they added that one thing that would probably be a big help would be if they church members would commit to giving blood if they are able. A blood bank nearby would save lives.

The elders of the church reacted with wild enthusiasm, so much so that the doctors wondered if they misunderstood.

There was no misunderstanding. The elders said this would be a wonderful opportunity for discipleship. They could give their blood for each other JUST AS CHRIST DID.

Just after I heard that story many years ago, I started giving blood.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

63: Words in Christian Worship

The prompt is to do a free write starting with a phrase from a Sylvia Plath's poem "Metaphors": "a melon strolling on two tendrils". This isn't a free write. The prompt gives me an excuse to write about something I've been thinking about recently.

I haven't read Sylvia Plath, so the phrase "a melon strolling on two tendrils" really doesn't mean anything to me. It sounds like nonsense. Now, I know that for a reader of Sylvia Plath, and in the context of the poem "Metaphors," the phrase probably means a lot. If I were to read the poem, or more from the poet, it would mean a lot for me too. But as it stands, it doesn't mean anything.

In fact, the phrase can make me angry. I can imagine having a conversation with Sylvia Plath fans where one of them says that something is like a melon strolling on two tendrils. The others would laugh, or nod, or quote the next line from the poem, and I would feel excluded, and stupid, and angry.

I was at a wedding once, and one of my friends, who felt he was being peppered with questions, said that he "didn't expect a sort of Spanish Inquisition." A number of others, including me, shouted out the next line from the Monty Python sketch: "NO ONE EXPECTS THE SPANISH INQUISITION!"

Another of my friends (not a Python fan) shouted out even louder, "NO NO NO! NOT HERE!"

She was having fun before, and then, suddenly, she was on the outside, looking in. With just two sentences.

Language can do that. In just a sentence, a phrase, even a word, it can separate the insiders from the outsiders. It can make some people feel really good about themselves, while at the same time making other people feel awful, outside, angry.

I've been thinking about this in the context of Christian worship.

We go out of our way to make worship a place where everyone can feel welcomed. Certainly we wouldn't call someone in the congregation "fatso" or even "hot stuff" during worship. We wouldn't walk through the congregation and tell people to get out.

And yet, a lot of our language in worship can have this same effect. I'm not talking about the usual "inclusive language" paradigm. I'm saying that we often use language in worship that means as much to an outsider as a melon strolling on two tendrils.

Outside of church, imagine two people talking about a work assignment: "I just want to lift up the contract proposal to thou, so that thou mayest place thy greatest effort toward its completion."

Is worship for making those of us who know the lingo feel included (like Sylvia Plath or Monty Python fans in the examples above), even if others feel excluded and even belittled?

I'm not saying anyone intends to insult the church's visitors. My Monty-Python-fan friends didn't intend to exclude anyone either.

If you get hit hard in the face, though, does it hurt less if the person who hit you didn't intend to do it?

We as Christians are called to sacrifice. It would not sacrifice our ideals or even our theology to work toward using language, in prayers, responses, and hymns as well as sermons, that use regular, ordinary language whenever possible. 

It would be a sacrifice, however. We would have to think more about what we say, and be more attentive to people who are different from us. We might also feel a little less sure of our place on the church "insider track." 

Oh, and we'd also have to give up a lot of the way we've always done it.

When I shouted that line from Monty Python, I didn't realize that it would divide my friends. I don't want to do that in church.

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.

This work by Timothy H. Ruppel is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.