I have a confession to make. No, two. Maybe, three.
This is not the post I wrote for today. That post got a big thumbs down from Dave. Just to make sure I got it, he stood at the door of my office and ranted about how he doesn’t want God to wrap him in a warm towel!
“Plus, it’s just filled with awful writing,” he said. “I mean, it’s a mush of love and grace and dying and crying. Once again, honey, are you trying to beat your men readers away with a stick?”
By the time he was done, I was laughing to tears.
See, crying. What’s wrong with crying? And forgive me, but I do want to put my head under God’s thundering waterfall of love and then have him wrap me in a towel. Who wouldn’t want that?
Here’s another thing. My sister loved it. Which means something here is good. Which means it might be fixable.
But Dave’s right about one thing. I take myself way too seriously. I want to solve the world’s biggest problems and greatest spiritual mysteries—in under 500 words.
So Sunday morning, I picked up my friend, Hafiz. And I remembered again the reason I love his poems. Here’s an excerpt from the one I read:
“Restlessness and a lack of peace
can play a vital part in your inner unfoldment.
If you ever become too complacent, too
accepting of your sorrow or shadow self,
the moon might fling a beehive into your
undies and that should wake you up.”
That woke me up, for sure. And it made me realize that God was awake, too—and he was laughing at me. Me with my sleep-smashed hair hoping for spiritual revelation and getting bees in my underwear.
He’s as bad as Dave, I swear.
It reminded me of what happened last Monday when I drove with a friend in her car to a luncheon in Denver to hear author William Cope Moyers speak on addiction.
He was great, I’m sure. But his wasn’t the lesson I remember. My friend, you see, recently got one of those new-fangled breathalyzers installed in her car, courtesy of the legal system. Every twenty minutes or so, this gadget would start to beep and she’d rush to pick it up so she could hum really loud and blow really hard into the mouth piece for about ten seconds—to prove she hasn’t been drinking alcohol.
The challenge for her, especially with me in the car, was to make it through without laughing.
Amazingly, she doesn’t resent the device at all. “It’s great for my ego,” she admitted. “I’m driving along and just as I’m thinking too much or taking life too seriously—it beeps and I get to feel ridiculous.”
Aha, you see?
Profound advice arrives, even without the waterfall of God’s love.
Just… Hum loud. Blow hard. Repeat.
P.S. In Dave’s defense, I want his honest reactions…and in the end, I always post what I think is right. On Wednesday, I’ll run the post in question… probably with the waterfall part still intact.