2. My niece asked me to take a selfie for her family tree project, and after my fifth attempt I was forced to accept: this is what I really look like.
3. I heard a radio ad for a “hotline” available to callers who were thinking of leaving their religion, whatever that may be. The hotline staff, they assured us, had been trained to help the callers not by calming their doubts, but by helping them simply find their way out—of any and all belief whatsoever. The selling point, apparently, was that this “recovery” would be offered with no judgment, no guilt, no problem. (Because really: why do it to yourself, man?)
These three unrelated disasters gathered like the perfect storm on Saturday night to whip me into a frumpy, wrinkled, computer-illiterate dum dum who had just won a front-row seat to the End of Days. (And I won’t lie: #2 made me feel the worst.) By nine o’ clock, I announced to my husband that I was in an official and exhaustive Bad Mood. (I think I saw him flinch when I said it. He’s seen my Bad Moods.) So here’s how I worked it all out:
First, I had a little breakdown in front of the Hub and he gently reminded me that few bloggers are fluent in WordPress; most of them hire professional programmers (or a darling hub, if they’re lucky) to help them out. This made me feel a little better, if no less stupid.
Second, I had a little breakdown in front of my camera, and I gently reminded myself that it was the tail end of winter, not to mention the tail end of a housecleaning/yardwork day, hence the greasy face and hair. I also reminded myself that the indoor lighting was terrible (just go with it) and that I was still in the hopeful process of losing the winter six (seven) pounds, hence the wrinkled and frumpy. This made me feel a little better, if no less wrinkled and frumpy.
Finally, I had a little breakdown in my heart, thinking about our culture’s confused determination to build a little faith into Our Great And Important Lives instead of building our little lives around Our Great And Important Faith. And I gently reminded myself that the only way I could make sense of this problem—or any other—was to write about it. And so I did. Which made me feel a little better, if no less disheartened.
But more on that tomorrow.
Today, I’m feeling better. Because today is Sunday, and it’s my favorite day of the week. Today I get to put dinner in the crock pot and go to church with my family and soak up the silent, satisfied warmth of being not only where I should be, but where I want to be. Today I get to go home with my family and talk and eat and laugh and turn from our little thoughts of the week to the big ideas of today. And isn’t that what Sundays are all about?
Today is a new day, and I’m thankful to be in it.
And thankful there was no one at the other end of the line to talk me out of it.