All posts tagged: #perissos

Comparison Game

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My first job out of college was at a Chicago homeless shelter. They provided drop-in services on cold winter nights and a year-round residential program for recovering homeless addicts. I did donor relations and lived in a crowded apartment above the shelter. I was invited to hang out with the residents whenever I wanted, including daily breakfast downstairs before work. Every morning, 13 residents would get up from the tables to form a circle in the warm cloud of Cook Lula’s spicy potatoes and onions. The tallest resident would boom, “Hook up the cables! I need a jump start!” We joined hands and closed our eyes. They thanked God for their warm beds and the roof over their heads. They thanked God for Mr. Jay and Mr. Brian teaching them how to stay clean and get jobs. Then one morning one man earnestly prayed, “I thank you, God, for the use of all my limbs.” Everyone nodded, murmured, and moaned their agreement. Never, ever in my life had I passionately thanked God for the use …

Crows

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Once I was held prisoner in my room for 10 weeks. Preterm labor demanded bedrest if I wanted to give my unborn babies a chance. I lived in fear of losing them. I also lived in fear of crows. ***** Almost every day of my bedrest crows came to haunt me. They curled their talons and straightened their black cloaks on the bare winter branches outside my window. They stared in my room with sinister eyes and cawed menacingly. I trembled. There was no roadkill in my room for them to eat. Whose death were they waiting for? Were they circling over the twins I was desperately trying to grow inside my huge belly? Did they think my babies weren’t going to make it? Did they know something I didn’t? One day I couldn’t take it anymore. I untangled myself from the contraction monitor, subcutaneous terbutaline pump, long white compression socks, and twisted blankets and heaved myself out of bed. I punched at the window with one hand and guarded my babies with the other. “Go …

The Home Inspector

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I thought we were going to live there forever. But a week after the new windows were finally installed my husband took a new job across the country. After crying for days about leaving our best friends and favorite grocery stores, I focused all my energy on selling our beloved 90-year-old home. We went room by room, writing down 63 things that needed to fixed and finished before we could sell it. The hole in the wall where my son smashed the doorknob every day. The moldy splotch on the ceiling where the tub above leaked. The bent screen door. The missing rungs on the back porch. The peeling paint. We spent our weekends and evenings working on that list. Tacking up pieces of trim, painting over scratches and stains on the walls, replacing mirrors. We couldn’t fix it all, but we tried. We sold the house very quickly to great buyers with no legal or financial issues. All that was left was the Home Inspection. They say that Home Inspectors aren’t looking at any …

My Body Tells the Truth

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My oldest friend was my biggest fan. She ran ahead to prepare the way for me. She’d say, “Have you seen Aimee? She’s so skinny!” Or “Isn’t Aimee cute? Those freckles!” Or “You can’t make red hair like that in a salon, you know!” She made people want to like me before I even met them. She made life easier. Then she got mean. I heard she gossiped and turned people against me. “Have you seen Aimee? She looks pregnant!” And “Why is Aimee so shiny? Is she sweating? Ew.” And “She definitely doesn’t look like someone who runs a lot.” I kept my head down in shame. I hated her. I wanted nothing to do with her. I cringed and curled into myself. I’m a rational and forgiving friend. When problems come I’m not afraid to address them, get the bottom of them, seek forgiveness, and extend forgiveness. But betrayal is different. This terrible old friend is My Body. She betrayed me. I believe it’s My Body’s job to defend, protect, and promote me …

Being the Best Blessing EVER

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I distinctly remember walking into a dentist appointment thinking, “I want to be this hygienist’s favorite patient ever.” I already flossed and brushed my teeth, gargled, and blotted my lipstick. I smiled broadly, asked and answered questions, complimented her technique, and thanked her for her hard work. I left with a new toothbrush and a sense of accomplishment. Before I went home to cook the best dinner ever for my husband and friends, I interacted with the cashier at the store, tollbooth attendant, and neighbor the same way. I did everything I could to be the best customer, toll-payer, and neighbor they ever had. I wondered if they would go home and tell their families, “You’ll never believe how great this lady was today!” For my husband’s birthdays I would brainstorm a million ways to show him lavish love. I’d cover all 5 Love Languages – big gift, very long letter full of loving words, celebratory physical touch, sacrificial service, and lots of uninterrupted quality time. There could be no doubt I was a great …

I’m Batman

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I really wanted to be Wonder Woman. I dreamed that I would have (and fill out) that shiny, patriotic bathing suit, use a magic lasso on bad guys, and marry Superman. I would pilot my invisible jet over the ocean or just ride on my super husband’s back through the sky. We would stop all evil and look good doing it. Then I outgrew my underoos, went to college, got married, and got a job. My husband is fantastic, but he cannot fly. I pilot a minivan instead of a crime-fighting invisible jet. My kids are obsessed with comic books. About 50% of our conversations are about superpowers, supervillains, ridiculous scenarios, and epic battles. Their favorite characters are mutants, stars of ancient mythology, aliens, or lab experiments gone wrong. But my favorite is Batman. It’s not just because he’s an introvert with depression (like me). Or because he has a dark anger that sometimes makes justice look like revenge (like me). I like Batman because he has zero superpowers (like me). I tell my kids …

New Girl

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[featured on Perissos 6/3/16] I think I finally found a new church. I’ve been searching for a long time. I need a place where people accept me unconditionally, even when I make huge mistakes and have bad ideas. And thank God I found it. Right in front me. Right here on Hulu. It’s the TV show New Girl. One night my husband turned on a show with some woman in little girl/old lady dresses talking dramatically to three/four really immature guys. They all lived in a big loft together. I rolled my eyes. “Nope. This show looks lame.” He said, “I really think you would like it, but okay.” He turned it off. A couple months went by. The only things left in the queue were some documentaries we’re never going to watch. So my husband suggested New Girl again, and I relented. I laughed so hard. My husband smiled knowingly. We watched all five seasons. It is the story of the “adorkable” school teacher, Jess, and her three or four male roommates. Nick is the …

Legion

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[featured on Perissos, 5/18/16] The story of Legion gives me nightmares. It’s about a naked, bleeding, demon-possessed man with super-human strength, who lives in a cemetery, intentionally cuts himself with stones, and haunts the region with his screams. I think Legion looks like Sasquatch, the Hulk, and Satan all mixed together. In my dreams I walk toward the hillside at night, and I want to help him. I want to take him to a homeless shelter where he can get a shower, a meal, and a bed. I want to drive him to the ER and have someone look at his open wounds. I want him to get transferred to the Psych Ward. I want to give him a fresh start. I walk up the hill in the moonlight driven to find him. When he jumps out from behind a stone my adrenaline surges. I see his crazed eyes, long, matted hair, and gray teeth. I see his naked skin smeared with months of dirt and blood. I see deep scars from all his self-harm, …

Literally?

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Every morning before I went to the bus stop, my mom would walk me to the front door in her zip-up gray robe, smelling of coffee, and start this conversation: Mom: “What can you do, Aimee?” (big smile) Me: “All things.” (sigh and eye roll) Mom: Through who?” Me: “Jesus.” (another sigh) Mom: “That’s right! You can do all things today! Do you have your armor on?” Me [?] Yes. Mom: Do you have your sword and breastplate? Me [?] Yes. Mom: Good! Love you! Have a good day. (big hug) Me: Bye. I didn’t understand any of that. I knew I couldn’t do “all things.” I couldn’t speak French or jump rope. I didn’t have x-ray vision or know how to make the flying carpet I ached for. There were dozens of things I wanted to do every day that I couldn’t. Poor Mom, she didn’t know what she was talking about. For years when she asked me if I had “my breastplate,” I thought she was asking if I was wearing a bra. …

The End of Pretending

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I was a cynical child. I read the encyclopedia and analyzed comic strips in the Sunday paper. I observed adults and memorized their conversations. I typically spoke out of the corner of my mouth in what relatives called my “ventriloquist voice.” I didn’t like church. The sweet incense and sticky pleather olive green kneelers were annoying. I didn’t like how the priest did that half-singing about communion at the altar. I didn’t want to read a public prayer about loving God when I didn’t even know him. What was so great about God anyway? Then my mom started talking about Jesus all the time, like he was her best friend or something. I couldn’t believe we had to start going to church twice on the weekends – Saturday night mass to keep our grandmas happy and Sunday morning megachurch to keep our parents happy. I didn’t like Kids Praise and Music Machine always playing loudly at home. So much smiling in those songs. Those happy bible verse lyrics invaded my best ideas. I tried to block them by listing …

A Wrinkled Mess

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Yesterday I decided to Spring-clean our bedroom, which included stripping the entire bed and washing the king sized duvet cover. When I pulled it out of the dryer it was a wrinkled mess. I declared, “I’m going to iron the duvet cover.” My husband looked up concerned and said, “You’re going to iron? Are you sure?” It’s been a long time since I ironed. Years. I don’t think my kids have ever seen me do it. Ain’t nobody got time for that. We send my husband’s shirts to the cleaners and buy wrinkle-free clothes for everyone else. I pulled down the squeaking legs of my ancient ironing board and blew dust off the bottle of starch. I turned the iron on. I looked for the seams hidden in the yards of fabric. The geometric pattern was all jumbled under the long wrinkles. Slowly I laid a section over the board and ran my hand over the cool fabric. I felt the heat from the iron. I shook and sprayed the starch. I quickly fell into …

The Buoy

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I’m hiding in the bathroom. Everything is too hard. Again. My child’s big doctor appointment was a disaster. Again. The note from school was embarrassing. Again. Big changes at my husband’s work. Again. Texts about a long death, a baby in the hospital, and a broken deal all dinging on my phone. Again. Wrinkled receipts, unopened mail, sticky cold medicine, half-filled lunch bags, and late library books cover the counters. Again. Off-key piano and bass practice take up all the air. Again. No bread or milk in the fridge. Again. I rushed into the green guest bathroom to try to hide from the tidal wave of anxiety. I heard its distant roar when I was clearing the table. Again. “God? I can’t. I’m not going to make it.” I don’t know how things got this way. So many people depend on me. They follow me and cling to me. They hang there. That’s like my job now. I give long hugs. I lay silently with my kids while they fall asleep. I listen a lot. …

A Kiss or An Ambush

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I’m not sure when I started feeling sorry for Judas. Surely not as a child, when we’d boo and hiss at his betrayal in the colorful Bible storybooks. He hurt sweet Jesus, who always smiled and healed sick people. Judas was definitely the bad guy. Not in high school, when my personal relationship with Jesus entailed memorizing bible verses, confessing my sins, and listing my concerns about other people’s sins. I would have been able to help Jesus see where Judas was headed. In college, at the height of my legalism and perfectionism, I felt impatient about Judas. I didn’t want to discuss free will, God’s sovereignty, or any nuances. He was a selfish double agent, going after wealth and his own version of justice. It was unfortunate he hung himself, but it made sense. During that time I did a seven-week intensive study program in Greece, Israel, Egypt, and Italy on the archeology, history, topography, geography, and artistry of the Bible. Even though we sang sweet worship songs on the island of Patmos, shores …

Running Away

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Last summer we moved to Georgia. I wanted to run away. As soon as the buses took my kids, I ran hard toward the dark canopy of the trees near our new house. My anger matched the summer sun and my fear matched the thick humidity. I would remember my kids crying about school, getting lost on the way to the store, and all the love we left behind. I would pound that pain into the winding path. Forsaken and alone I didn’t pray anymore. But the trees sheltered me with leaves larger than my face. I would run panting across the intersecting roads to get back under their generous covering, grateful. From the very first run I felt the woods offering me friendship. I was enchanted. Ducks and dogs rushed to greet me. Shiny laughing crows teased me. Deer and sparrows tiptoed in the periphery. Spotted red mushrooms smiled. The lake sparkled. The trees were my favorite. The short one with blue flowers at her feet cheering me on at the start, the arched one reminding …

Holy Outrage

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Our world is terrifying. I can find something to be upset about every day. I open the computer and see in the headlines that ISIS beheaded more people, more refugee bodies washed on the shore, more homeless died in the cold, more kids were sold for sex, and more time was granted to Trump. Evil is smoldering, glittering, and snickering all over the world. Lord, what do you want me to do about evil? Sometimes I read the articles and watch the videos. Sometimes I like, comment, and share news posts. Sometimes I pray about them while I’m driving or running. And then they’re often forgotten, or at least pushed back a row in my mind to make room for the injustice I’ll surely read about tomorrow. Lord, what do you want me to do about evil? When I saw the pictures of the dead refugee baby on the beach last fall I was outraged. I wrote my elected officials and asked them to do more. That felt good for a few hours. But it didn’t change anything. So I …

He Already Did

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I said goodbye, closed the front door, and crumbled to a heap. My friend had quietly driven over to gently tell me she was having her fifth baby. I’d been trying for years to have one baby. We were now at the stage when people whispered apologies when they were pregnant. This is why I have a soft spot for the old barren couple who open the story of Advent. During the time when Herod was king of Judea, there was a priest named Zechariah, who belonged to the priestly order of Abijah. His wife’s name was Elizabeth; she also belonged to a priestly family. They both lived good lives in God’s sight and obeyed fully all the Lord’s laws and commands. They had no children because Elizabeth could not have any, and she and Zechariah were both very old.” – Luke 1:5-7 Zechariah and Elizabeth were a ministry couple. They did everything right and yet somehow didn’t get to smell soft baby necks, play catch, or brag about grandchildren. They knew how to professionally pray and sacrifice, …