You know what I want? A sleeping porch. I'm sitting on the back deck blogging, and the temperature has finally surpassed 70, and the sun and the breeze and the richness of full-sized leaves has me wishing I could be among them as I slept, and wake up with the dawn and watch the world turn to color. A nice, deep, screened-in sleeping porch opening onto a wild backyard with plenty of trees, that's what I'm wanting. On calm nights I could listen to the trees susurrating in the wind (there's always wind, near the lake); on rainy nights I could relax to the serenade of rain on the roof; on stormy nights I could lie awake and snug in bed, shivering in electrified delight at every silent blossoming of light, at the thunder ripping the fabric of the sky apart. And then I could get up in the mornings, go in the house for a cup of coffee, and take it back outside and crawl in bed with it to soak in the first part of the day.
So my one-day dream house has a kitchen almost as large as a house itself, an octagonal study (perhaps separate from the house) with a high domed roof, and a sleeping porch. I mean, obviously it has other amenities as well, but I haven't planned those. It's set in the countryside of somewhere on the face of this world, somewhere where the landscape peaks and rolls, and where there are woods.
But really that's mostly because I haven't lived anywhere there weren't woods. I have always detested the thought of endless Midwestern prairie (Laura Ingalls Wilder I ain't), but I've never lived in the desert, or the mountains, or the tundra, or the savannah, or the coast. I wouldn't mind a stint in all of those landscapes and more, because when it comes to land you never know what you love until you've lived there. I do not love Indiana; I do love Michigan. I definitely love Pennsylvania. But when you boil everything down, none of those places are vastly different from one another. If I were to go somewhere with a different kind of landscape, I may find I loved that in its own way like I love the trees.
Because I love the trees. I love their height, their balance of stillness and motion, the way they root the land. I love their life. I could sit for hours watching the sunlight filter in its many shades of green and gold through the leaves, tracing the patterns of the shadows the leaves throw upon each other, shadows that are only darker shades of green. I'm staring at them now. Clearer and purer even then glass, and so perfectly balanced against the hazy blue of the sky. Blue and gold, and green. Lovely colors.
I've been thinking lately about fear, and guilt, and accountability, all of which I hate, one of which I have begun to fight, one of which I've worked at conquering these last eight years and one of which I have utterly rejected. (Yes, I utterly reject the notion of accountability. I don't find anywhere in the Bible where it says that we must give account to one another. We are to encourage, support, admonish and confess to one another, and at times confront one another, but the foundation of all of that is love, and none of those things are designed to hold a person accountable, but to come alongside a person and help him further along the road. It's more a "no soldier left behind" thing than "hey, you, look at what you're doing wrong, you're answerable to me for that which is none of my business!" The only person named in the New Testament as "him to whom we must give account" is God. To me it is irreverent to assume that role in any way. Further, the contemporary concept of "accountability" is founded on guilt, and I don't need anyone else making me feel guilty for something I'm not doing well; I know my shortcomings and failures acutely all on my own and feel terrible enough about them without someone pulling a long face and asking me "how my walk with the Lord" is going. Presumption! None of your effing business!
But then again, I could name a handful of people right now from whom I wouldn't mind more penetrating questions, from whom I would even welcome them -- well, first of all because they wouldn't ever use the phrase "your walk with the Lord" (ugh, ugh), and second because they know me, and they love me, and they understand me, and the relief of their knowledge and love and understanding gives me freedom to be honest instead of defensive; allows my vulnerability. It's not that I never want anyone telling me I'm wrong, it's that the people from whom I allow that kind of intimacy are very, very few, and almost never the people who ask the question or give the unsolicited advice. And the people I do allow to ask me those questions, to voice their concern, aren't always even professed Christians. But they do have my deep respect, and they all strive for a level of uprightness that puts a lot of Christians to shame. And the professed Christians whose uncomfortable questions I would welcome do the same. From them I wouldn't reject questions normally attribute to "accountability." ("Let a righteous man strike me: it is a kindness. Let him rebuke me; it is oil on my head. My head will not refuse it.")
I suppose my pride could stand to be taken down a few notches. But I don't barge into people's lives and ask them, when I see them in a bad mood, how their devotions are going, or how their walk with the Lord is going. To me that's utterly disrespectful. Most people know what they're doing wrong anyway; it's much more effective to ask, "What's wrong?" or "Hey, are you okay? You don't seem so good." At which point, once they get off their chests what has triggered whatever is wrong, they'll go into the real reason why they're not doing well, and that's when you can encourage them, instead of keep them accountable. No one is answerable to me. How could they be? I'm far from perfect. And if a person has wronged me, amends must be made and a confrontation may be due (and conflict is good because its resolution brings about deeper understanding and fewer future transgressions; the more people communicate, the better they understand, and the more protection they have against hurting each other), but ultimately mine is the responsibility to forgive, not hold them answerable.
Love, love, love. It's not about being right, it's not about pointing out to someone the error of their ways, it's not about how well we're following the rules, a number of which are human constructs anyway although they've been glued to certain interpretations of Scripture. It's about love, which keeps no record of wrongs, which does not delight in evil (or perhaps in being better than someone else for the joy of judging them) but rejoices with the truth, which always protects, always trusts, always hopes and always perseveres...and which never fails.
Here endeth the rant.)
And even though it's a lovely warm Saturday begging my presence at the beach, I really need to grade essays. And clean my room. Sigh. At least there's that wedding reception tonight.
Oo, maybe I'll beach it tomorrow, if the weather's nice. Erie is holding its annual Great American Book Sale tomorrow (an entire school gymnasium filled with semi-truckloads of used books, all sorted into categories and at delicious prices). I have a few dollars saved up and I plan to be discriminating about the books I buy, but I haven't been able to attend this event in a few years and it was Leigh Ann's and my favorite event of the summer. There's something unbeatable about the crush of booklovers elbowing their way in to snatch particular favorites, exclaiming and ooing and ahing over suddenly discovered treasures, and asking each other to keep an eye out for this or that title, everyone suddenly rivals or friends, no longer strangers, but compatriots in this one primal adoration of the written word and human creativity...and the American love of a good bargain.
I must pack a few sturdy bags to hold my finds. And I'll wear my bathing suit under my clothes, if the weather's nice, because the school where the sale is held happens to be about half a mile from Presque Isle.
Excellent, Smithers.
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