I Say, Son.

VBS went great last week. I was stellar on the tech team. At one point during each opening presentation a foghorn was required. The first day we skipped over it. The second day a sixteen year old showed me how to retrieve the sound effect from the Internet, and the kids fell out laughing. Wednesday, I found a sound effect site and made the necessary arrangements. My finger poised for the one job the team felt I was capable of preforming - the cue came, I hit the button, and "I say. I say, son, it's Foghorn Leghorn here."

I blew it. But I say, son, it was a learning experience!

(No child was injured in the performance and process of this event.)

No Moss Growin On This Sissy

Last week a recluse, this week a volunteer. My yearly dose of Vacation Bible School taken every morning until GONE.

VBS isn't for sissies.
I agreed to work the sound board this year. This is high tech fun with three interactive DVD's. Now those of you who've read this blog know my aptitude for all things technical, and you might be thinking this wasn't a very kind and charitable thing to do to the young woman coordinating the program. You might even whisper, "She doesn't want them to ask her next year," but I figured, how much do little kids notice screw ups anyway? I'll let you know.
Here's a poem from my files...

A Rolling Stone

Unh, unh,

patches of mildew,
gray shadows on the north side,
moving like clouds up my leg.

Unh, unh,

bright green fuzzies
grow roots in wrinkle lines
along hands frozen by time.

Unh, unh,

sandbag levees,
acrid shrines to middle age,
brace against creative failure.

Unh, unh,

rolling stones once,
now inertia
at the bottom of an hour glass.

Recluse

Hermit Crab

I balance my shell, this borrowed security so easily plucked. Why do they poke and prod – curious enemies? Scurry. Tide’s out, time to clean house. Push out the sand, unload the baggage, move on – hurry to the next hole.

Safety shell I carry, a cool space with curved edges, lit with grace. This pen – my sanity – my self place, a broom to sweep away the sand and dirt. Mercy massages my tired thoughts, sooths my aches.

This shell, sometimes heavy, other times turned up – a buoy, I ride the waves. Uncertainties splash, and I retreat inside. My umbilical ink to the Spirit provides nutrients of inspiration.

The sand it irritates me, now. Cramped – my shell, it doesn’t seem to fit. I’ve grown and didn’t notice.  I must move on to something bigger. It’s scary to leave, but Faith insists. She lives in here with me. She cleans the corners of doubt. Mercy, too, crowds in. I must find a larger shell – my guests insist we move.

I grab my pen, closets full of stuff, we leave to find a larger view.