“He drew a circle that shut me out

Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout

 But love and I had the wit to win;

We drew a circle that took him in.” -  

 –  Edwin Markham

If you know me at all, you know two basic things about me.  One is that I pretty much carry a book everywhere.  Even if I am in a situation where I’m not going to be reading, I usually have a book with me.  Daddy once had to pull over during a road trip to get a book from the trunk.  I had finished the one I was reading and was not acting very ladylike without something else to read.  Books are pretty much to me what a thumb and blanket are to Linus.  I’m almost never without one.

The other thing about me that is pretty apparant pretty quickly is that I talk.  I don’t just talk, I talk all the time.  Mama says that when I was little, I would babble to myself in my crib.  No one was around but me and the toys, but there I was…talking without real words.

I do that, you know.  Talk.  And because I talk, you may get the impression that I can’t keep secrets.

In that you’d be right.  And in that you’d be wrong.

If I’m told something is a secret, I can keep it.  For example, in February of my junior year of college, Kenny told me that he was going to propose in July but only if I didn’t tell anybody.  It was the longest half year of my life.  That one, I kept.  Generally, though, if I know something, I tell it.  If I’m in a conversation with someone and a third party walks up, I like to recap the conversation so everyone knows what’s going on.  If there is a detail that I have gotten wrong, I’ll often go back and have the conversation again, letting people know what I’ve misquoted or mistaken.

I’ve thought a lot about why I do this.  Other people are fine with keeping the things in their head…in..well their head.  I however, cause my mother to say “If Stephanie doesn’t tell you everything she knows (about a subject), she thinks she is lying.”

Maybe I like attention.  Maybe I like the sound of my own voice.  Maybe I can’t stand for a room to be silent.

I think though, that this…need…to have everyone included, no one left out comes from some of the schools I attended.  I was too…uncoordinated, pale, literature minded, slow at getting inside jokes, something to be a part of much of anything “groupy” or “inside” or “popular”.  So I can’t stand it when I get even a hint of someone being confused or excluded or not knowing what is going on.

This, this “family”, this “circle”, this “group inclusion” is one thing that my Devotion in Motion group does very well.  When Amanda and I started this Creative Ministries class, we weren’t sure how it was going to go.  By the time we got our core group, we found ourselves with kids ages four to seventeen.  *Gulp*  You see, for the most part, four year olds can’t read and between that and the students’various interests in puppets, drama, dance and song, we weren’t sure how we were going to do anything, much less pull together a skit or two.

Well we’ve done a skit or two.  We’ve done a song and a dance and a puppet show.  Er…well, I take that back.  We didn’t do much at all.  Besides a few “don’t turn your back to the audience” and “no you can’t both play the part of the bad guy, one of you is going to have to be the hero” type comments, the kids are doing it themselves.  They are capable of casting themselves, choreographing themselves, directing themselves.  Now Amanda and I aren’t about to turn the class over to them (they aren’t -that- grown up yet), but we’re so proud of the group they are becoming.

They are different ages.  They are different reading levels.  They are different grades.  They go to different schools, wear different clothes, play different sports.  They listen to different music, read different books, come from different backgrounds.  Some of them are even from different generations.

But they love each other.  They support each other.  They are becoming a group.

I hope that they stay together for years to come.

Years ago, I overheard a conversation in which one church member was discussing another.  The woman under discussion was in the process of divorce and had kind of drifted away from her church “friends” in favor of people outside our Christian community.  “Why” the originator of the conversation wondered. “Wouldn’t she want to go to fellow Christians for advice?”

I wasn’t part of the conversation and wouldn’t have had an answer if I was.  That is, I wouldn’t have had an answer then, but I think I do now.

See, since childhood, I’ve been the posessor of a black hole of…need.  To put it bluntly, I’m caught somewhere between so shy I make Rapunzel in her tower look sociable and…well, an attention whore.  I say things people don’t understand.  I act out.  I sing and pout and whine and cry.  And if that black whole isn’t filled, I act in silly, shameful and, yes, frankly sinful ways.

And during those times, I often don’t talk to fellow church members either.  But it wasn’t until I overheard the conversation mentioned above that I began thinking about the “Why?”  I am, after all, a Christian.  I have been since I was five.  I can quote you all the “required” Bible verses, sing you at least the first lines of many classic hymns and teach little kids “Jesus Loves Me” in sign language (at least the chorus).  I’m so far into the church culture that most of the surrounding world would have a hard time separating me from it.

Yet, with few exceptions, the people I consider my best friends don’t do the “Sunday Morning, Sunday Night, Wednesday Prayer Meeting” thing.  They have Bibles but may go days without reading them.  They believe in God, but don’t always talk to Him.  And I am so much more comfortable getting personal with them than I am the people I’ve sat in the pew with for over a decade now.

So, as I began to think about the why of it all, it hit me.  Non Christians are more likely to admit that they are sinners than Church People are.  Therefore, they are more comfortable with my faults, failings and confessions than the worship crowd is.  Whether my fellow church members know I am a minister’s child or not, they know me as a Sunday School teacher, a choir member and/or Kenny’s wife.  With that comes an expectation of behavior.  All day, all the time behavior.  When I was living at home, I had a friend tell me that she was shocked to find out that I got into fights with my parents.  She didn’t know ministers’ families acted so…real.

Well we do, and I do.  And Church People have a hard time seeing that. 

Once, when I was expressing disapproval over something I had seen on television, someone told me “Stephanie, you can’t expect Non Christians to act like Christians.”  I thought about that and I wonder: Are the expectations of Church People too high?  Do we put so much pressure on CHRISTIANS to act like Christians that we are, in effect, shutting people down, clamming people up and driving people away?  Like I said, my friends, the ones I’m comfortable opening up to, aren’t shocked if I say “damn” or “hell” or wonder what some kind of drink tastes like or expound upon my never ending Johnny Depp crush.  They don’t hit me with a Bible verse if I say “I think I’m in trouble” or “I don’t have anyone to tell this to.”  They’ve been there.  They have been broken.  They know that they are sinners too and no amount of shock or distain or judgement is going to take that stain away.

See, I think that Church People (me included) take the whole “ambassadors of Christ” thing too far.  Advice giving is great, but what hurting people want is someone to listen, someone to care.  Witnessing can be an ego boost.  So can the number of baptisms a church sees in a year or a sucessful Sunday School attendance.  However, when you’re like me and the clouds are circling and there isn’t anyone to turn to and all you get is Romans, Romans, Romans, you don’t care about numbers or FAITH plans or any other cutsy little marketing tool that Church People have been so trained in that they can’t deviate from the script.  You care about real.  You care about really real.  You care about someone who says “I’ve been there” and who isn’t just saying that to elicit some kind of made up intimacy.  You care about someone who really HAS.

But church, outside of high school, may be the most clique filled place on earth.  It’s a curse and a trap and before you know it, you’re in a role and the only way to survive is to push the hurt, the pain, the “I’m falling into sin here” down and to play that role for dear life.  The problem with a role, though, is that it doesn’t allow for deviation.  My role is two fold.  I’m the crazy not quite grown up girl who says things that make sense to -her- but leaves everyone else scratching their heads on the one hand and the happy to be with the little kids classes teacher on the other.

And you know what? I AM happy to be with the little kids classes.  They aren’t Church People yet.  If they are sad, they tell you.  If they are sorry, they apologize and no amount of coaxing is going to make them say “Sorry” if they don’t really mean it.  And you know what?  They love Jesus.  They love Jesus and they haven’t got any veils or mists or clouds yet to obscure the Gospel.  To them, it’s just love, no matter if they deserve it or not.  No matter if they threw tantrums or spilled glue or cut their neighbor’s paper, they know they are loved.

I wish that my friends and I could find that kind of love amongst the Church People, but I’m afraid we can’t.  Not yet anyway.  That’s okay though.  I’ll hang on with the children and the “sinners” and somewhere between the “I’ve been there’s” and the “Jesus Loves the Little Children’s”, I’m sure to find what I’ve been looking for. And there will be no Church People allowed.

The biggie, however, is heights.  Stairs, elevators, balconies, stepladders-heck, I even get dizzy sometimes standing up to look at a hymnal.

So why am I in love with the theatre?  Why do I go to shows knowing that there will be myriad stairs to confront and no safety bar when I get to my seat?  I can’t answer the first one, but once I am in my seat, I am okay until I have to stand up again.

The problem comes during intermission.  For some reason, I can’t get through a play (or a movie) without having to use the facilities.  For any normal patron of the arts, this would not present a problem.  Most people can get up, brave the line, take care of business and be back in their chair in time to enjoy Act Two.

I’m not normal.  I freaked out once at the Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Museum because there was a walkway overlooking some of the exibits. To get from point A to point B, I had to cross the walkway.  I did…eventually, but not without my muscles locking up and my body refusing to move despite Kenny’s not so patient urgings.

I just about lost my breath at the Biltmore house when we had to go single file up the backstairs for the “Behind the Scenes” tour.

And crossing from car to car on our honeymoon train almost ended our marriage before it began. 

So when September came and my family and I went to see -Wicked-, I knew I was in trouble.  The music was good.  The sets were good.  The show was great.  My fear was out of control.  I made it through Act One without having to rise, but by intermission I knew I had to get up.

This presented a problem.  On “land” I can go to the restroom alone.  Up high, on the very top row, there was no way I was going to be able to make it by myself.

Enter my cousin Emily.  Emily is about ten years younger than I and I remember her as a supremly confident three year old playing Clue with the “older kids”.  She is now a grown up nurse with dark eyes and a pretty smile.  And she became my “bathroom buddy”.  Though she didn’t have to go herself, she let my eyes follow her feet down the narrow aisle and back safely to my seat again.

I’m getting better.  When I was a teenager, my brother used to carry me up stairs.  When I was first dating Kenny, I wouldn’t get near an elevator until his arms were wrapped around me so tightly I couldn’t fall.  And church balconies rarely, if ever, saw my presence.

I’m getting better, but I’m still terrified.  And I’m thankful that for that day, Emily gently took one step and then another, leading me through my fear so that I could enjoy the musical we had both been wanting to see.

See, I was just barely too old for the Kid’s Meal at the Wendy’s where we had stopped to eat.  So I got my very first Single Combo (with a Frosty).  I carefully carried my tray over to the condiment/straw/napkin station and *whup*…my first “adult” meal ended up all over the floor.

I was mortified.  I stood, frozen, not sure what to do. 

And then he came over.  I never got his name.  I don’t know how many crying little girls he delt with on a daily basis, but to me he was not just the manager, he was the man who saved my day.  He spoke softly.  He got my mess cleaned up.  And he gave me another meal.  Just like that, for free.

He probably doesn’t remember me.  But I remember him.  And I’m grateful for the people who didn’t have to, but did.

Like my brother.  By the time I was in college, we weren’t that close anymore.  Growing up, we moved several times and had a built in friend in each other.  But I started college when he started high school and we didn’t see each other that much anymore. 

Except, of course, for summers.  By my junior year, I was dating Kenny and often out at the movies or on a picnic or something.  And Clay was off with his band or his girlfriend or his sports teams.  We each had our own phone lines (which came in handy the night my door got stuck and I couldn’t get out of my room, but that’s another story), our own computers, our own lives.

And then came the fight.  Kenny and I fought a lot in those days.  Politics, religion, not complimenting my dress, anything could set me off.  I started most of the fights but Kenny knew how to finish them.  It didn’t take a lot to light my fuse, but it didn’t take much to set off my tears either.  And one night, I was crying and sniffling and very unsure if I was going to have a boyfriend in the morning.

Normally, I would have gone to my room, picked up a book and cried myself to sleep.  That’s what I would have normally done, but I didn’t want to be alone.  So I knocked on Clay’s door (a hallway–and a world–across from my own).  I didn’t expect him to answer, but he did.  He took one look at my face, ended the phone call he was engaged in and ushered me into his room.

We didn’t talk much at all.  What we did was watch an old tape of -Red Sonja-, but it meant the world to me.  I went to bed with tears dried and in the morning, of course, I did have a boyfriend.  It all worked out, but it wouldn’t have been as smooth if not for my brother.

Our Christmas musicals wouldn’t have been as smooth if not for Kenny’s friend Jeff.  A couple of years ago, we wanted to branch out from the traditional Mary, Joseph, doll wrapped in a blanket to represent Baby Jesus.  We had a drama that worked to have both live actors and parts on videotape and Jeff did a great job presenting the flashback scenes.  He simulated airport noises and rental car voices.  The next year, he drove around town to make it look as if the actors were riding in a car.  He and Kenny have big plans for future presentations and I’m sure that as technology progresses, our Christmas musicals will be the highlight of the season.

This past Christmas season was delayed for our household.  The Wednesday before Christmas, Kenny and I were working late.  As usual, Kenny asked what I wanted for supper.  Normally, this question would not be cause for concern, but that day I felt terrible.  I had an upset stomach and just wanted to go home.

Kenny knows my erratic eating habits and we discussed whether or not supper would actually make me feel better.  I was game if he was, so off we went to the Chinese buffet.

Big mistake.  Walking in the door was okay.  Getting my first plateful of food was okay.  Taking my first bite was a disaster.  Kenny got back to the table, took one look at me and knew trouble was coming.  Before he could ask if I felt okay, I was up and to the bathroom.  Before I could even close the door, my dinner (and lunch and breakfast) was all over the floor.

Once again I was at dinner.  In public.  Humiliated. Ashamed.  And crying.

Kenny quickly assured the owners that their food wasn’t to blame.  The mess was cleaned up.  Kenny continued eating.  And I was sipping my tea, getting ahold of myself.

Until the waitress came over.  All she said was “Are you okay?” and the tears started flowing again.  No, not tears, buckets.  I was crying and shaking and very very embarassed. 

The waitress didn’t mind.  She bent over, put her arms around me and began to rock me as if I were a small child.  Stroking my hair, she whispered “It’s okay” like a mantra until I began to believe it -was- going to be okay.

It was, of course.  The owner didn’t charge for my meal, the waitress kept bringing me sweet tea, I spent four days in bed and life went on. 

But she will become part of my story.  I didn’t get her name, but I know her attitude and her heart.  It is kind.  It is loving.  And it makes you believe everything will be okay.

As did Sam Adams.  Yes, his name we got.  We were cold and frustrated and stuck on a ditch when he came along.  It had been raining and snowing and the roads were icy and dangerous.  Our four wheel drive was out and Kenny took the extreme measure of putting me behind the wheel to hit the brake when he told me to.  I was shivering and scared…and silent, which should tell you how scared I was.

We weren’t the only car on the road.  We were just the only car headed for the ditch beside it.  Kenny pushed, Kenny turned the wheels.  Kenny did everything but give up when Sam Adams came along.  He was in a little truck with a little rope.  He was determined to pull us back onto the road even if it meant delaying his trip.

I was still scared, but I was back in the passenger seat and watching them tie the ropes onto the vehicles when Kenny came to the window.  “I think we’ve just met a soldier,” he said.  That made me pay closer attention.  We have great respect for soldiers in our household.  Sure enough, Sam Adams was calling us “sir” and “ma’am”.  He was heading to Fort Knox.  He had a short haircut.  And he couldn’t believe that no one had stopped to help before he did.

We’re not sure how to thank him, really.  We know that the road would have thawed out eventually and we would have gotten home to our cats one way or another.  But we also know that in a way, he saved us.  We didn’t have to spend the night on the side of the road.  We didn’t have to sleep in the cold.  And we didn’t have to stay stranded in a ditch.

He took time out of his travel schedule to help strangers.  The waitress put aside her personal discomfort to hold a shaken girl.  Jeff gave of his time and talent for very little earthly reward.  Clay gave up a night with friends to invite his emotional sister in for a movie.  And the guy at Wendy’s made a weekend of travel so much more than a conference.

They may have not wanted to.

They certainly didn’t have to.

But, oh, I am so glad they did.

Kenny: I love you.

Me: Tell me I’m pretty.

Kenny (To whom looks mean nothing, or so he says): Growl.

Pause.

Kenny: You’re the prettiest human female who has been in the house today.  How about that?

Pause.

It then hits both of us that other human females have keys to our house.

Both of us: Unless someone snuck in.

At this, we both crack up!

Ha! After twelve years, we’re sharing a brain.

At least occasionally.

Kenny (who hates it when I start a question that way because it usually involves adding something to his already full to do list): Yeah? (Picture this said in a sarcastic yet wary tone.)

Me: I’ve been reading about health care and I’m getting worried.  What if something happens and I can’t…

Kenny (interrupting me before I go on and on): It’ll be okay.

Me: So if I need something you’ll get it for me?

Kenny: Yeah.

I’m just starting to feel better when he adds this: “Or shoot you, one”.

All righty then.  Good to know he has a plan.

**************************************************************************

We’re in the car.  The podcasts that Kenny has loaded have come to an end so he switches over to some random music.

I wake up to Neil “There are two kinds of people in the world.  Those who like Neil Diamond and those who don’t.” Diamond.  I happen to like Neil Diamond and am happy that the music is on my favorite song “Hello, Again, Hello”. (Yes, I know this isn’t the title of the song, but it’s what I call it.  So there.)

So we’re passing Wendy’s and then McDonald’s and the song isn’t over and we pull into our driveway and I expect Kenny to keep the song playing until it finished.  He doesn’t.  He turns the key and opens the door, which stops the music.

Me (indignantly):  Hey!  I was listening to that!

Kenny: So?  You can listen to it in the house.

Me: But it’s my favorite song!

Kenny (knowing full well that I have about a million “favorite songs”): We’re home now, it’s time to go into the house.

Me (pouting): You used to finish them for me.  You used to drive me around so I could hear the music.

Kenny (halfway to the house while I’m still in the car): Yeah.  Gas was cheaper then too.

******************************************************************************

At work running newsletters for a community group.  Running so many newsletters that we have both the old copier and the new one (that the company recommended when the old copier started acting up) working.

Kenny (upon discovering that the “new” copier is acting up while the “old one” -that used to be the “bad one” is running just fine): Piece of Garbage!

Me: Now honey, I mess up sometimes and you don’t call me a “piece of garbage”.

Kenny: Yeah, but I don’t pay $700 a month for you.

Pause

Kenny: I especially don’t pay $700 a month for you because my first wife is worn out.

Allrighty, then!

My husband will be marrying his fiancee after graduation.

Me: (upon seeing that one team didn’t read their clue) You know, it’s easy to laugh at them now, but if we were ever in that situation, we might…

Kenny: (Cutting me off in a “This is final” tone of voice) I would never be in that situation with you.

******************************************************************

Watching a different episode of -The Amazing Race- in which teams have to find a hotel by identifying the famous woman in the picture.

Me: (squinting past the sunglasses on the face of the woman in the picture) That looks like Jackie Kennedy.  Why wouldn’t they know Jackie Kennedy?

Kenny: Well the younger people wouldn’t know her. (Looking at me, realizing that he’s called me old.) But you know her because you’re weird.

******************************************************

At Wal*Mart.  One thirty in the morning after a long day at work.  Kenny wants to get our stuff, get home, go to bed.  He’s striding toward the Pepsi, not looking to the left or the right.  I’m skipping along reading all the labels on the stuff on the shelves, looking at the Holiday edition Fabreeze.

Me: (After catching up with him) Would you know if I wasn’t behind you, or would you just keep walking?

Kenny: At this point I wouldn’t care.  (Pause) Well, I’d know you weren’t with me when I got home and you weren’t in the car.

Kenny (Since he’s not just my husband, he’s my boss): Remind me to give you your paycheck.  I wrote it today.

Me (Happy that more money will go into my “Saving to visit Scotland Pile”): Scotland?

Kenny: Uh Huh.

Me (Knowing that Kenny doesn’t wanna visit anywhere outside the United States): You know, if you don’t want to take me, my Daddy said he’d go.

Kenny: Maybe he could pay for it.  That way we could buy something I’m interested in.

Me: Like Johnny Depp.

Kenny: No.  I have no interest in him.

****************************************************************

At work. After hours. Me playing videos on You Tube.  Kenny doing whatever computer genius-y stuff he does when the official work day is over.

Kenny (Noticing loud music coming from Mike’s computer.): What are you listening to?

Me: Evanescence.

Kenny: Growl. (When he’s sort of annoyed, he actually says the word “Growl”.  So this is him saying the word, not making the sound.) Does this mean you’re in a bad mood?

Me: No.

Kenny: Good.

Me: It means I’m thinking about high school.

Kenny: High School?

Me: Yeah.  Next I may play Roxette.

Kenny: That makes more sense.  They may have been popular when you were in high school.  Evanescence was just a few years ago.

(At this point I am both annoyed at being called old and proud that Kenny knows what music I play when I’m in a bad mood.)

****************************************************

Kenny walking by while I’m playing Yoville, a virtual world on the computer.

Me: I’m buying a bathtub!

Kenny: What?

Me: I’m buying a bathtub.  I’m so excited.  I’ve been saving up.

Kenny (Looking at the little virtual store from which I am selecting my virtual bathtub): Buy a laptop instead.  It doesn’t matter if you’re clean, but you always need to be able to log on to the Internet.

Me: Are you glad you married me instead of getting a Cadillac?

(Let me explain.  A Cadillac is Kenny’s dream car.  He always points them out to me when we’re traveling.  He also jokes that I am his Cadillac, meaning he spent money to get married rather than buy his car.)

Kenny: There’s no way to answer that.  I obviously didn’t buy a Cadillac, so I don’t know if I’d be glad having it.

(At this point I am only mock indignant.  We’ve been married twelve years and have had this conversation-or some variant thereof-many times.  I’m not anywhere near June Cleaver territory on the scale of perfect wives, but I’m not totally terrible either.)

Me (After five minutes or so of mock pouting and bickering): But I’m the best wife you’ve ever had, right?

Kenny: That’s a safe bet.

*******************************************************

In the kitchen.  I’m spinning around singing some kind of song that has been floating around in my head for the past couple of days and Kenny is doing his best to put up with it.

Me: I wonder how much of me is who I am and how much is who you made me to be.

(I don’t mean “made” in a forced sense.  I mean influenced.  I was still a teenager when Kenny and I first started sitting together in church, riding around in cars and generally causing rumors in our small town church.  Therefore, I’ve been around Kenny for about half my life and there are many areas in which he played teacher/instructor/professor to my teenager/student/brat.)

Kenny: There is no way to determine that.

Me (as if Kenny hadn’t said anything): I mean, I don’t dress up.  I don’t wear make up.  I barely brush my hair.  If I were married to a different man, do you think I’d do those things?

Kenny: If you had a stupid husband you might.

************************************************

At Wal*Mart after church, looking for chili mix.

Me: Can I ask you a question?

(This is my standard way of approaching any topic that makes me anxious or uncomfortable. Kenny knows this.)

Kenny (who is now on guard): You just did.

Me: Did you tell people at church that you want me to drive?

Kenny: What?  No, I don’t think so.

(A note is in order here.  I have a license.  I have driven.  Kenny says I drove for about a year before I didn’t anymore. I don’t remember that part.  I just remember being terrified.  I get scared easily anyway in unfamiliar situations, and driving compounds this fear a hundred fold. Kenny, who is afraid of nothing-not spiders, not death, not the dark-has picked up on this fear and much prefers to do the driving himself.  Since I prefer to let him drive and since we work in the same place, this usually isn’t a problem.  Every now and then, however, someone will see the license in my purse or not understand my jokes about why Kenny had to go to Nashville to see “Wicked” when he doesn’t like musicals and the conversations begin anew.)

Me: Well, I heard you said you wanted me to drive, but that I was scared.

(Which I am.  Very much so.)

Kenny: Would it be convenient if you could drive?  Sometimes.  But does it terrify me when you do? Yes.

(At this point, he is raising and lowering his hands like one would a scale)

Kenny: So would I rather be inconvenienced than terrified?  Yes.  So it’s not a problem.

***********************************************

At work.

Me (after proofreading an obituary that included the deceased’s places of residence, club memberships and hobbies): When I die, are you going to put my whole biography in there?

Kenny: I don’t know.  I might just say “Dead. Now.”