Did you hear the train?

Yesterday my nephew, who's four, was here for a quick visit.  Oakley loves trains.  And by that I mean he LOVES trains with the fire of a thousand burning suns.

Anyway, we were walking up to an electronics store, where his dad was looking for a gift for his mom, "from the kids".  As I was opening the door to let Oakley in, he turned suddenly to look at me with wide eyes.  "I hear a twain!" he exclaimed.

I listened, and he was right.  There was a train whistle blowing.  But if he hadn't mentioned it, I wouldn't have noticed.  If I had continued into the store and you had asked me, "Was there a train whistle blowing outside?" I'd have said no.  With confidence, no less.  And I'd have been sure I was right.  I didn't hear it because I wasn't listening for it.  It's not that I don't like trains.  They're fine.  But Oakley?  That boy lives and breathes trains.  His love of them causes him to be forever tuned in.  He is always, under the surface, listening for trains.  And so he hears them.

I can't shake the memory of the excitement on Oakley's little face, and how I felt when I realized that I was totally missing what was so important to him.  I can't shake it because of the spiritual lesson it reminds me of.  We hear what we're listening for.  We see what we're watching for.

God isn't hiding.  He isn't hard at work in exotic mission fields only.  His visions and dreams aren't blocked from the Western world by some sort of high-energy microwaves.  What blocks him out is us.  Someone says God spoke to them in a dream and we pass it off as indigestion.  We're not looking.  We're not listening.  We're walking through life, spiritually blindfolded with spiritual earplugs firmly in place.

We have forgotten silence.  It makes us nervous; and no wonder.  It is in the silence that the Spirit can speak to us.  He comes in the still, small voice, remember?  We fear what He has to say to us.  Will He insist that we surrender something?  Will he press us to do something that frightens us?  Will He poke and prod at a wound long covered, long ago sustained, but never healed?  And so we drown out the silence.

We scorn stillness. We call it laziness.  And worse than that, we ignore the entreaties of our God to be still, and we say instead that Good Christians work for the Lord.  Never mind that the Lord asks us to come away; to walk away from all the bustling and be alone with Him.  Never mind that this is the pattern set for us by God's own Son.  We decide for him that God understands.  That family needs me to bring them a casserole.  My kid's science fair project is due tomorrow.  My house hasn't been dusted for weeks and the in-laws will be here soon.  I have to bring snacks for the Bible study.  We leave no time to be still.  We make excuses and we stay busy and we un-learn how to do it, so that even if we give it a half-hearted attempt, we fail.  We fidget.  We check our email.  We look at our watches.  We make mental lists of things we need to accomplish.  We've forgotten the skill of stillness.

And all of this points to the same problem.  We are too busy being good for God to be with God.  We are too busy serving to be still.  And at the heart of it, hidden deep down beneath layers of spiritualization and justification to protect us from the sinfulness, is fear.

We fear that what we will hear, what God will tell us or ask of us, will be too much.  Too hard.  Too scary.  Too impractical.  Too radical.  We fear the opinions of those around us.  Our family.  Our friends.  Our churches.  We have decided that refusing to hear is less sinful than refusing to obey.

We know how the world perceives radicals.  It's not positive.  We don't want that.  We want, instead, the clean, sanitary, bright-and-shiny GOODness, and not the unknown of GODliness.

We don't hear the train whistle because we're not listening for it.

We don't hear God's voice because we've made a concerted effort to drown it out.

But God isn't asking us to be good.  He is asking us to be Godly.  To face down our fears and trust him enough to look foolish.  Trust him enough to seem irresponsible.  Trust him enough to let others- even others in the Church- call us radical.

We resist.  We do life half-heartedly, and because of that we become overwhelmed with all the things that pull at us.  We try to get by on spiritual junk food, and then are mystified when we have no spiritual energy.  What God calls us to do is not possible without his power.  And we cannot tap into that power if we're not listening and obeying.

God will not empower us to do busywork in order to ignore His true calling in our lives.

We're doing it wrong, Church.  We're doing it half-way, and half-way doesn't cut it.  The whole world is watching.  They're watching us do it wrong and label it "GOD" and suffer through life.  Why on earth would that draw them in?!?  This should not be.  Because it's not just yourself that you're making miserable.  It's ruining your reflection of God, too.

All or nothing.

Embrace the unknown.

Listen for the train.

Lost and Found

This is where I keep my earbuds.  See them?  They live here on the hook by the door for easy access when I go to the gym.  This system was working pretty well.

Then I got kitties.  Here they are.  The little black one is Daisy and the biggest gray one is Mary.  They're nice.  I like them.

And yet, there are a few downsides to cats.  One is that kittens like to play with...well...nearly everything.  And knowing this, I decided to hide my earbuds so Daisy didn't chew them or relocate them for me.  So I did.  And then the next time I went to the gym, I couldn't find them.  I couldn't remember if I'd put them away somewhere, or if I'd just planned to do that and in the meantime, Daisy made off with them.  I figured that Daisy had probably batted them off the hook and stashed them away somewhere, like a crazy squirrel.  So I looked for them.  I looked lots of places.  Like under the bed...  

And under the dresser...

 Under the couch cushions.  No earbuds, but I found my long-lost barrette!  Yay!  I also found a hair ribbon and a tube of chapstick that I know aren't mine.  Ew.

They weren't here, either...

They weren't here (this is behind the couch)

I bet you wish you could have looked in here!  Lots of stuff, but no earbuds.  :(

Maybe in the cleaning bucket?  Nice try.  But no.

Under the bathroom sink?  Nope.  But I found some other junk.

Not behind the TV, either.

How about the stack of stuff I haven't organized yet in the Spare Oom?  That's a negative, Ghost Rider.

I put off looking in the basement as long as possible.  There is a really impressive collection of random stuff down there.  Also a bunch of gigundopedes.  Ew.

[if you don't know what a gigundopede is, you can find it in google images under "house centipede".  For the squeamish among my readers, I will not post a picture here.  You're welcome.]

No earbuds here either.

Earbud free area.

Even underneath.

And then, after about 10 days of looking, I finally found them.  Here they are!  Do you see them?

Look closely at the bottom of the scarf.

Yep, they are right where they always were.  I put the scarf there to hide them from Daisy.  It worked!  It also effectively hid them from...me.

Sheesh.

Red Box Encounter

Tonight I waited patiently behind a college-aged guy with an arm covered in tatoos and his two buddies at the RedBox at Walmart.  His chewing tobacco spit bottle was sitting on top of the machine, and his friends were loitering off to the side, lanky and restless.

He was swiping his card as I walked up.  We all waited awkwardly for the machine to spit out his game.  By the time it did, the guy has started talking to his friends and doesn't notice.

I notice.

I decide not to be bossy and wait for him to notice, too.  He doesn't.

Eventually the machine sucks the game back in and displays an error message.  The guy notices that.   "What the...?"  He reads the error message and reports it to the boys.  They shift impatiently and make sounds of general unrest.  The guy debates trying again.  Maybe the machine is broken.  I finally speak up.

"You waited too long to take it.  It'll work if you try again."

"It came out?"

"Yah."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, I thought you would see it..."

"You shoulda been like, "He, Tatto-guy, stop talkin' and get your game."

We all laugh as I somewhat feebly defend myself by saying I didn't know it would get sucked back in if he waited too long.

"I guess I'll do it AGAIN," he said pointedly, looking at me in mock accusation.  Finally, the hard-to-get game makes its second appearance of the evening.

As he leaves, Tatto-guy turns to me and says, "You have a good Saturday night."

And we part ways.

Adventures in Fort Wayne

This summer I moved into a 100+ year-old house.  Before I moved in, my future landlady warned me that they have battled "critters" in the past.  After being reassured that said critters were mice, not snakes-

[editor's note: yah, snakes crossed my mind, even though this house is smack in the middle of a city.  When it comes to me and snakes, logic is rarely involved.]

-I shrugged mentally.  I grew up in a 100+ year-old-house.  In the country.  Mice don't really bother me.  I mean, not that I'd choose to deal with them, but unless they're attacking me (which, in my experience, isn't common) I'm good.

So I moved in.  It's a cute house.  I like lots of stuff about it.  One day, soon after helping me move in, my dad noticed the cupboard where I'd store my snack foods.  "If you're going to keep food like that there, you should put it in a plastic container," he said, "to keep the mice out."

I agreed it was a good idea.  And then, owing to my not-so-extreme concern about the thus-far-unseen mice, I promptly forgot.

A couple months passed with no sight of mice, or their (ahem) leavings.  I got busy with my new job and hosting a stream of house guests.  One day, I opened my snack cupboard to forage for sustenance, and I noticed that a package of peanut butter crackers was opened and half eaten-

[editor's note: you were TOTALLY expecting me to be face-to-whiskers with a mouse, weren't you?]

-which is strange because I never eat half a package.  And I live alone.  Upon closer inspection, I realized they'd been gnawed...very neatly...by a critter.  Pondering the precision of my unwanted houseguest's eating habits, I look further through the collection of snack bags.  As I did so, I had a sudden, clear vision of my father's words of wisdom from a few months back.  That plastic container I was going to pick up.  Oops.

The next day after work I headed to Meijer, where I picked up a couple mousetraps and a purple plastic tote that would fit inside my cabinet.  Let's pause here for a moment to congratulate me on thinking to measure the size of the cupboard opening before going to the store.  Thank you.   I got these mousetraps that are designed like the traditional kind, but made of plastic and easy to set.  Most importantly, they let you get rid of the dead mice without touching them (which is worth the extra $1 each in my opinion).

That was a Friday.  In less than 24 hours, I had my first mouse.  By Monday morning, I had caught and disposed of three.  The first one only got caught by the foot, and it was a little traumatic for me, figuring out what to do.  I am too pragmatic to take it outside and set it free to come back in; I am too squeamish to smash his nasty little mouse-head; I am without any other weapons that seemed reasonable.  Eventually I drowned him in my giant outdoor trashcan, which conveniently had about a foot of water in the bottom from the rain that night.  Disposal of the other two mice was, if not enjoyable, at least trauma-free and satisfying.  Take THAT, jerk-mice!!

Mouse four and five each waited just long enough after the previous victim for me to stop expecting to see them whenever I checked the traps.  Thanks, jerk-mice.  (I suppose we're even now, though, since you're dead.)  Anyway, I've been feeling pretty good about the whole thing. Things have seemed more or less under control in the mouse containment arena.  And then today happened.

This morning, when I came into the house after going to the gym (pause again for you to be impressed that I went to the gym before work), I thought to myself, "I need to take out the trash."  It smelled a little funky.  Just a hint of funk, which usually indicates need-to-change trash bag at my house.  As the only person producing trash in the house, it usually started to smell before it gets full.  It was trash day anyway, so I took out the trash before I left for work, expecting the funk to disappear while I was gone.

When I got home this afternoon, it still smelled funky.  FunkiER, in fact.  Weird.  Maybe it's the dishes?  (ok, don't judge me.  I try not to let my dishes go long enough for them to stink, but...well...sometimes it happens.  For what it's worth, if you ever come to visit me, I always do dishes in preparation of guests)  I had already been planning to take care of the dishes today, so I got to it.  I lit a smelly candle (blueberry muffins, thank you Sarah) and set to work.  As I came to the end of the sizable pile, I could tell that the smell wasn't disappating.  Huh! ??  What the what?

I checked my fruit bowl.  Nothing rotting.  Checked the veggies.  I had a rotting zucchini, but it didn't smell.  I chucked the zucchini and continued on my search.  Smell isn't coming from the fridge or under the sink.  Onions are fine.  I guess I'll just check each cabinet?  Silverware, check.  Hotpads, yep.  Empty drawer, pause to marvel at having more cabinet space than I can even use.  All the way around to...you guessed it!...the snack cabinet.  (sigh)

After my epic Meijer trip, my snacks stay in the purple tote, and I keep a trap behind it.  Being the fan of snacks that I am, I tend to check that trap quite often.  But this week, I had been a bit lazy, and hadn't put my snack bag back in the tote.  As I looked at the tote, I thought, "Oh man.  How long since I checked this trap?  Two days?  Three?"  The smell indicated a few days at least.

I stared at the tote.  Bracing myself for what was behind it.  Reminding myself to check traps daily.  Feeling irritated that my (non-existent) husband wasn't around to do this.  Wishing that Harrod was closer to Fort Wayne and I could enlist the help of my dad or brother.  This is totally a boy job.  Tossing a freshly-dead mouse is one thing.  All signs indicated this guy wasn't fresh.  I gulped.  I steeled myself.  I moved the tote.

I shall spare you a play-by-play of this part of the story.  Just a few clinical observations:
-Found it
-Happily, the trap was upside down
-I was very conscious of where I grabbed hold of the trap, and managed the entire disposal without looking at the whole mouse.
-I have never been happier with my choice to go with the touch-free traps
-Judging from the puddle of goo and...other things...left behind, mice decompose pretty quickly
-Maybe I need a cat
-Maybe I need a husband
-Maybe I could hire this job out
-Ugh.  I'm not usually squeamish, but it's been an hour or so, and I'm still feeling a little ookey.

And so.  The moral of the story, kids, is to always check your traps frequently.

I can hardly wait until the weather turns cold...