Words from The Crone

“Could you hand me the clicker-dicker?” “Where is that thingy I just had?” “Would you please get me a pill from that squarish-round bottle on the shelf?” “It’s in the dark place where we keep the stuff we need.” That’s RitaSpeak, or so my spouse, R, says. Frankly, it is perfectly clear to me what I mean. In reality, it is probably part my short-hand (or long-hand) for stuff and the loss of memory that goes with aging.

For example, I can remember (now, of course) that once I could not for the life of me remember the name of the refrigerator. And so, RitaSpeak went something like this: “I’d like a soda, but not the ones in the pantry but one from the ???, place that is cold where we keep our food.” Have any of you ever done that or is this something totally unique to me? Sometimes when I forget a name I just keep thinking until it comes to me, but I’ve found that RitaSpeak works just as well.

Being products of corporate America both R and I use short-hand letters or acronyms a lot. We have two pantries and they are called “P1” and “P2.” Our upstairs loft/office is called the “L’office,” and our living room, dining room, kitchen, great room is called the “Groom.” I guess you might call that OurSpeak. We even have OurSpeak rules like rule one is “Keep the door to the bathroom closed,” and rule two is “Put the toilet seat down.” Saves a lot of words. I wonder if that qualifies as going “Green” with words? Does that lower our carbon footprint with less exhaled carbon dioxide?

The other day we were driving somewhere (doesn’t matter where) and the display lights on our dashboard were dim. R asked me if the round dial thingy for lights was up? RitaSpeak at its best! What that meant was “Is the dial that controls the dimming of the lights in the off position?” It was, and strangely enough, I knew exactly what he meant. R was astounded that he had even said that because he has never spoken RitaSpeak! I guess it is contagious. LOL.

My daughter thinks some of our RitaSpeak words shouldn’t be used like “Clicker-dicker” because it doesn’t seem to connect to anything. Well, I’m sorry, but “Clicker-dicker” is the remote control for the TV. Even I can understand the “Clicker” part, but where I came up with the “Dicker” part is beyond me. Or maybe not – it rhymes with “Clicker.” Oh, well, such is RitaSpeak!

We all have that “most embarrassing moment” in our life. You remember it, don’t you? I thought so. I have often thought about mine and wonder what is it about being embarrassed that etches such a deep memory in our brain cells. I can’t remember the balance in my checking account but I can sure remember my most embarrassing moment. You too, I’m sure.

Mine actually happened when I was six-years old, or 64 years ago. It was even in March of 1946 so you know I remember all too well. I was on the playground at the Isaac School in Phoenix, Arizona in Maricopa County. I have all these tiny details because I ripped off my science book and they are stamped on the inside cover. I love that book and don’t plan to return it. But, back to my “Moment.”

It was recess, a time when we are all supposed to have fun! Sure. Does anyone remember those things called “monkey bars?” They come in various sizes and shapes, but the one I was on was very large and very high and looked like the skeleton of a very big tent. It was so inviting to climb and climb I did. Up one level of rungs, up the second level of rungs, up the third level of rungs, and up the fourth level of rungs. Several of my classmates were climbing all over it as well and many of them were performing a myriad of movements, some swinging by one leg, others by a couple of arms, another by two legs hanging upside down.

I wanted to be one of them and so I decided that the two legs hanging upside down was easy. I didn’t stop to think that they were all boys and had pants on. I, like any proper little girl, had a dress on. Whoops – upside down I went and swoosh, over my head went my dress. I couldn’t see a thing. Obviously, this was not working. The boys were snickering of course, they could see my under panties! Good thing they weren’t from Victoria’s Secret! It was also obvious that I had to get out of this embarrassing position.

It got worse! As I tried to use my torso to lift myself up to grab an upper rung and get down off this monster, I got one gawd awful cramp in my left calf. It hurt so much I couldn’t lift myself up to get off. And so, I hung there upside down, dress over my head, with my not-so-sexy under pants showing. Talk about being mortified.

It got worse. The recess bell rang and all the kids ran inside. The playground was empty except for one little six-year old girl hanging upside down on the monkey bars. I was so embarrassed I couldn’t even yell or cry or whimper. I just hung there.

What seemed like a lifetime passed and finally, thanks be to God, my teacher came out and rescued me. It was really hard going back into the classroom, but well, we all know that we have to face our embarrassment whether we like it or not. And so I did. I learned a valuable lesson that day however. No one laughed at me or tormented me or scolded me. In reality, they couldn’t care less it seemed. They said, “Hi,” and back to our classwork we went. I learned to laugh at myself and recognize that while our embarrassment is very personal and ego-bruising to us, to others it is just another minor event in this huge event we call life! I learned to get over it – quickly!

Here is it twelve days since I’ve written anything on this blog. I feel like a blog blob. I’ve searched my mind for something relevant, or a least funny, to write about and all there is a blob of nothing. I don’t think it’s because there isn’t anything in my brain because I am usually full of words, written or spoken or even thought for that matter. I think it is summer laziness. Or maybe it is just plain laziness. Yes, that’s it, I’m just being lazy.

There are many things I am lazy about actually and many of them have nothing to do with summer. Like, why don’t I want to take out the trash? Why don’t I want to empty the dishwasher? Why does the clothes hamper get to massive overflow before I do the laundry? Why do the clean, unfolded clothes sit in a lump on the chair for days before I finally fold them and put them away? Why don’t I sweep that buggy porch, or get out the scrub brush and clean the lawn chairs of their bird guano?

Because I’m lazy! Well, at least that is what my mother would have said. I’m not really lazy because most of the time I am really busy doing lots and lots of stuff. But, when it comes to certain things, I just plain don’t want to do them. Really, who likes to take out the garbage? No one. That is why we relegate it to the pre-teens in the family, or the hubby. And, who really likes to empty the dishwasher full of sparkling clean dishes. No one. That’s why the dirty ones pile up in the sink until there isn’t any more room for the dirty ones and we are forced to empty the dishwasher. Furthermore, I have never in all my years found anyone who likes to fold (or even iron) clothes! No one. And who really likes to pick up the dog poop or empty the kitty litter box? Huh? Anyone?

I am certain that there is a list longer than both of my arms that I don’t want to do, or that anyone doesn’t want to do. But this blog is meant to be short because I just don’t want to rant on and on and on and you don’t want to read forever. So, there you have it. I may be lazy after all, but then don’t we all have some things we really don’t want to do? Come on, be honest!

It never ceases to amaze me at the number of people who want to hear about my calling into the priesthood. I often wonder if people ask that of doctors or lawyers or plumbers. It must be that there is a great deal of mystery about being called to serve God in this way, much like the mere mystery of God. What is more of a mystery to me, however, are the variety and diversity of those whom God does call. Having been ordained in my 60th year I really believe my calling is a deep mystery, and one I will never solve. To this day I often wonder why I was called. Others seem to know, but often I do not.

Most mysteries start out innocently enough. The mystery of my call started out with my returning to church after a seven year hiatus. A time when I ignored God and went about my life. My second marriage was to a life-long Episcopalian but he never asked me to return to church. It was something stirring in me that wanted to have this union blessed by the God I had ignored. It was like the atheist or agnostic that comes to God in the face of a tragedy. But my coming back to God was in the face of joy. And so, our civil marriage was blessed in a small Episcopal church.

In 1980 we started attending services and I wept throughout the entire first service. I felt that I had come home and something deep and mysterious was moving within me. For the first time in my life I wanted to “serve” God. And, so it started. Helping out here, being Treasurer, on the vestry, reading, lecturing, whatever I could do. R and I even taught a step-parenting dynamics class for two years because our pastor asked us to do it. Serve, serve, serve.

Somehow through all this serving it just never seemed like it was enough. There must be more I can do I would think. But what? What is it that you want from me God. WHAT? After I had done most everything there was to do in the church I was very frustrated. What could this inner urging, this sense of needing to do more, to serve more mean? And, then I found out.

In 1990 in a small Anglican chapel on the island of St. Bartholomew it happened. R and I had found this small chapel while shopping on a Saturday. We went in to pray as was our custom when we were traveling. And I wept and wept and wept. For an hour I wept and finally I just got up and left. The next morning we went back to that chapel for worship services. They were doing Morning Prayer because they had no priest for communion. During this service I had an overwhelming desire to walk up and preach and celebrate the Eucharist. Me a priest? Could this be?

Overwhelmed at the thought I couldn’t wait for the service to end. We finished our vacation and I went to see my own priest. I told him of the experience and asked him if God could be calling me to be a p-p-p-p-priest (I could hardly utter the word). “Oh, you’ll know someday,” was all he said. What kind of an answer was that? What should I do? I moved to Florida.

To make a long story short, as they say, after many lunches with my mentor and good friend, The Rev. GK, I could no longer keep saying “No, no, no, not me!” Again, in the context of worship as we sang the hymn “Take My Life and Let it be, Consecrated Lord to Thee,” I wept (I was getting good at this weeping thing) and my R practically had to carry me out of the church. I went to my priest and told him that I was ready to explore this mysterious calling to the priesthood. I still wasn’t sure why, but I really wanted to find out and put it to rest once and for all. I was certain that the church would somehow convince me that it was nothing but an old lady’s nightmare.

Hah! In 1996, after a year of discernment, the Commission on Ministry (they advise the bishop on things ordainable) and the Bishop affirmed my calling and sent me off to three years of seminary! Oh – my – God! Was this really happening I often asked myself. Yes – it – was! Three and half years later I was ordained a priest in the Episcopal Church. I was 60 and then some! I pray daily that God continues to know what to do with me! I’ve had a varied and diverse ministry all these years and I no longer get that mysterious urge within me to serve more and more. I finally have that contentment that I am serving God in all God’s mystery as I am called to do. And, I don’t have to figure it out anymore. I leave that to God. Thanks be to God.