A Something Random Guide to..

Some of the best life lessons still ingrained in my head are the ones that never really involved me to begin with.

I sent my parents a card for Valentines Day.  In typical Beth Rumbel fashion, I avoided the overly sentimental Hallmark holiday “you mean the world to me, but I’m going to send you a card that a million other people also received” cards (these kinds come better home made, but I was on another arts and crafts mission at the time), and found the cut out of a pig. 

Not even a cartoon pig with a cutesy curly tail, but an overweight real life hog dressed up in a tutu with fake wings.  It opened to read “Look, its Cu-pig!”

It was perfect. 

Without getting into too many personal details, the message I wrote to my mom and pop centered on the sentence “Thank you for teaching me what great love looks like.”

I only think of this now, 10 days after the fact, because Whitney Houston came onto my iTunes party mix (why iTunes shuffled “I Will Always Love You” into the mix, I’m still not sure.  Artificial Intelligence hasn’t evolved enough yet, I suppose).  It wasn’t their wedding song.  I don’t think they even have a wedding song.  Not one that has been shared with me anyway, even though I’ve asked. 

Or maybe I’m forgetting because it was before my time.  It’s entirely possible.

I forget a lot of things.  Forgetting is my biggest (and sadly justified) fear.  But I don’t think I’ll forget the day Mom, Cojack and I came home from a doctor’s appointment.  I was in grammer school, and Cojack being younger than me was not fit to be left to fend for herself.  So she came to my doctor’s appointment too. 

Back in the days of house phone lines, actual non-cellular phone numbers, answering machines were a big deal.  Cojack and I used to race into the house to the backroom in hopes of seeing a blinking red light.

There’s a message!  There’s a message!  We would yell until we were acknowledged.  The times we weren’t acknowledged immediately, we’d run back into the kitchen and start pulling on the arms of our parents, despite the fact they were often filled with grocery bags or other items.  There’s a message!  We’d say it again, and they’d either drop the bags to come in the backroom and listen to it, or tell us to go play it in an effort to appease. 

Mom there’s a message!  Cojack and I both yelled after returning home from my immunizations.  Ok, wait a minute, I’ll be right there.  She answered as if she already knew what magic was behind the glow of the tiny flashing light.

Pop would call home everyday at 3:57 pm to say I’m leaving, I love you, as he headed out of his downtown office to catch the R2 home.  The conversation was always quick.  I’m leaving, I love you.  Mom would answer I love you too bye.  The phone would click, and we’d see Pop a little over an hour later, coming in through the garage to drop his briefcase in the fireplace room and take his seat at the dinner table. 

It was after 4 this particular afternoon, so in hindsight I think she already knew the message was from Pop.  I’m leaving, I love you.  She already knew, or that day, she thought she already knew.

We gathered around the icebox that the answering machine sat atop. Cojack had the honors of pushing the play the button.  But rather than the expected I’m leaving, I love you, we heard: 

It’s 4 o’clock.  Then a drum beat.  Then, Whitney Houston breaking out into the climatic ending of the song.

And I will always love you.  I will always love you.  I will always love you.  I will always love you (the saxophone reentered the musical score after this one).  I will always love you.  I, I will always love you. 

I remember it vividly.

I remember wondering if my dad had a hidden Whitney Houston album somewhere that he got the track off of.  I remember my mom tearing up.  I remember Cojack running away when the message was over.  And I remember thinking, before I ran to chase after her (as I always did):

Love is a message on an answering machine.

And it still is.

I’ve been drinking water nonstop.

Well, almost nonstop.  I’ve been drinking it with a lunch consisting of Ben and Jerry’s.  And Tylenol.

Normally the aqua consumption wouldn’t be a shock–the air is SO dry out here that you need the recommended 64 oz a day, at LEAST.  But with the high altitude changes in baking, so comes an adjustment in the ingredients currently making up my life:

Combine one part headache and 4 nose blows to every cough in a body that’s aching all over.  Slowly fold in a sore throat (being careful not to break the yokes of the post nasal drip), and cover with a beautifully mixed trashcan full of vomit.  Incubate in Rumbel’s body at a fever of 102, and enjoy.

Scratch the enjoy.  I’m not happy about it, but I’ll survive.

With this recipe brewing up inside of me, I’m on edge about whether or not I want to go to Pathways tonight.  Ron’s starting a new series called “Post Secret,” and I’ve been really excited about it for the past 3 weeks.  Granted I could just listen to the podcast online tonight (there by not infecting all those in attendance), but he always picks out the best pictures for his powerpoint.

I’m sure a few of the postcards Ron would use would be at least secrets in my heart, and undoubtedly secrets in the hearts of those I’d be sitting next to.

Secrets like:

or secrets like:

or secrets like:

or secrets like:

or secrets like:

or secrets like:

or secrets like:

or secrets like:

or secrets like:

or secrets like:

I hate to admit it, but I can relate to a few of the above secrets.  Infact, I can relate so much in that I made one of these postcards… yet I don’t know how much of a secret it really is; I’m getting better at talking about it.

I love when movies have a great soundtrack.  The kind of soundtrack that you buy on CD, even though you can listen to it online for free.  The kind of soundtrack that you buy on CD (even though you can listen to it online for free) and you listen to it so much you think that the laser reading the CD will burn a whole straight through the middle of it.

I’m still working on the soundtrack for my life.  I think if my memoirs are ever published, then acted out on the big screen, I would need Rob Thomas’s “Little Wonders” in the background somewhere.

Let it go.  Let it roll right off your shoulder- don’t you know the hardest part is over?  Let it in, let your clarity define you.  In the end we will only just remember how it feels.  Our lives our made in these small hours, in these little wonders, in these twists and turns of fate.  Time falls away, but these small hours still remain.  Let it slide, let your troubles fall behind you.  Let it shine, till you feel it all around you. 
And I don’t mind if it’s me you need to turn to- we’ll get by.  It’s the heart that really matters in the end.

I hope this didn’t all sound terribly depressing.  I’ve feeling quite the opposite of that.

(Well, aside from the whole grumble grumble sickness thing, from which I think I’m going to quarentine myself tonight)

My “Lent Journey,” (although I don’t really like calling it that) is about brokeness and vulnerability.  There’s something liberating about losing control.  In laughter, in life, in love.

But where do secrets fit in?

I haven’t decided yet if the idea of secrets creating an otherwise unattainable intimacy is good or bad.  It’s the whole idea of “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours first,” that allows us to open up.  While I think the bond a shared secret can create is powerful, I have to wonder why we’re not creating said bonds with all those we come in contact with, and how doing so would change the shape of humanity.

When did wearing your heart on your sleeve develop a bad reputation?

In my selfishness, I have to admit that I do like secrets.  By no means for gossiping power, but for the connection.  One of my favorite things to ask Tony (and I hope he doesn’t get annoyed with this consistent request) is “Tell me a secret.”

It’s the kinesthetic side of me that I’ve inherited from my Pop.  I’ve always wanted to know how things work. 

Posted Secrets.  I usually keep these kinds of things a secret, as I’m afraid of jinxing myself.  So baby steps.  While I want to shout it from the top of every 14er, for now I can write it:

I’ve got a good feeling about this.

Jump feet first, first time.

In 1988, Johnson and Johnson released a VHS tape called “The Official Kids Safety Quiz.” Twenty years later, I find myself still recalling and reciting the practical advice of the robot alien “U-2-B,” who moderated the game show of automobile/pedestrian safety, swimming/water safety, fire safety and emergency response.

Game show questions like “True or false: if you can see the driver of a car, the driver of a car can see you,”

::or::

“You’re staying at your grandmother’s house when you see your little cousin Johnny playing with a box of matches. Should you tell someone?”

Jumping feet first, first time, was the catchy advice given in regards to swimming safety and testing the shallowness of unknown waters.

If Lao-tzu’s observance of a journey of a thousand miles beginning with a single step holds true, is it safe to assume that the more intensive journey of a lifetime requires you to dive in?

Diving in would immerse your head first, heart second, and feet last. If thoughts (combined with the feelings of heart) analyzed a situation before the feet gained a solid grounding, would the result be that the footing would remain indefinitely uncertain?

And if so, would this really be so tragic?

Even the firmness of soil is tested in times of flooding. To walk permanently on a ground comparable to the ocean’s beaches gives imagery of a world in compromise with life. Flexible, yet supportive. Changing, but conforming. The memories of digging my toes into the sand and finding relief from the overheated surface are comforting. Rock may provide sure footing, but you can’t mash your feet through it to cool off.

I’m getting ahead of myself. Where does this place the feet first, first time, advice?

I think it would be presumptuous to say that this approach is reserved for the timid. The reasoning for the safety slogan is obvious—so you don’t crack your head open in shallow waters. It implies the submersion of feet, heart, then head.

Sure footing implies a clear vision of life; an introspective response to an external stimuli. If one is grounded in their ways, how much flexibility does life have?

Could it be called timidness? Perhaps. But it could equally be called a strong will or audacity. You can’t stand for something if you don’t understand what’s under your feet.

The debate now becomes: is it better to start with articulate thoughts on shaky ground, or steady feet without contemplation? If muddied soil can harden, can shallow waters rise? With sure footing, is it still possible to be in over your head?

I propose that neither approach will be successful.

I wanted to write this Ash Wednesday night, after I came home from the service held at University Park. It always seems that when I’m in need of guidance, the messages come with perfect timing.

The reading for the evening was from Exodus 16:1-4. Oh Israelites, talk about receiving a freedom that you haven’t exactly bargained for. Instead of immediate deliverance, there was hunger and wandering. The wandering turned into murmuring. “If only we had died by the LORD’s hand in Egypt!” Essentially—they’d rather be enslaved, dying in Egypt, then trying something unknown.

I wonder how much I murmur. Or cry out to be enslaved. Not because I like the pain associated with it, but because it’s familiar.

Lent calls us into a journey through the unknown. While advent prepares us for the incarnation, we’re now being prepared for new life through the resurrection. The journey though? That’s where it gets personal.

Before this particular Ash Wednesday service began, we were all handed a small piece of paper. After Rev. Kottke finished his message about strength through the season, he asked us all to pull out the papers and meditate on what journey we would like to take these upcoming 40 days.

Perhaps it’s letting go of anger, Kottke said. Or overcoming grief. Or maybe your journey is shared with your family to rebuild relationships. Whatever it may be, it’s yours. Write it down.

I closed my eyes and swirled my thumb clockwise over the silky paper. This went on for about a minute before I opened my eyes and picked up the pencil.

BRoKENNESs. I wrote each letter slowly and boldly, pressing the pencil firmly into the paper. On the last “s”, the point splintered, and pieces of graphite smudged against my hand as I tried to brush them off the paper. This of course only seemed appropriate.

As I examined my paper, I licked my finger and rubbed it against my smeary palm in an attempt to cleanse the graphite. The word looked too alone. So I opened my purse as quietly as possible (which is never quite quiet enough when you’re in church), and dug for a pen to replace the broken pencil point.

Next to brokenness, and below the smudges, I wrote VULNERABiLiTY.

Because these journeys were to be our own, I figured we wouldn’t be sharing them out loud. But as I looked around the small congregation, I wondered if they would be collected and randomly distributed such that we could pray for a stranger. My words were clear, but they wouldn’t have made much sense to anyone else.

I picked up the pen again, and at the bottom of the paper I wrote “Give me” and drew a small arrow to my original word.

Give me -> BRoKENNESs.

Then looking at vulnerability, above it I wrote “(Let me become…).”

The grammar no longer made sense. So I made big X’s over the “iLiTY.” Below the scratched out markings I wrote in the letters “le.”

If the time allowed for meditation was any longer, I’m sure my paper would have become completely incoherent. Amidst the arrows, smudges, and blackened out parts, even I hardly understood the words on the paper. Rev. Kottke called our attention back to the front.

To stay true to the traditional wearing of ashes, Rev. Kottke explained that our markings would come from our journeys. That we would come to the front, put a corner of the paper into a candle flame, and drop the burning sheet into the bowl.

Amos Lee lyrics played through my head as one by one the people before me set their journeys ablaze, dropped them, and returned to their seats. I wonder what these people’s lives, what they might be all about. I didn’t want to wager a guess at what the other pieces of paper said. It would have been impossible to try.

We all carry secret things on our heart. Some hearts, unfortunately, have heavier weights than others.

But as I watched my words be consumed by fire, it occurred to me that it didn’t matter what their words were. Because their words were now my words. In the ashes, all of the words looked the same.

We were called to the front again, if we chose, to be anointed with these ashes as a sign of our journey. Rev. Kottke made the dust into a symbol on my forehead, saying “The Sign of the Cross: From ashes to ashes, remember your God, and remember your journey.”

Our journeys, combined into one source of ashes, made it the most powerful Ash Wednesday service I have ever been to.

I looked in the mirror when I got home. The ashes looked especially dark on my winter pale skin. Remembering my journey seemed paradoxal to the idea of it being forgetting everything I’ve learned.

I’m young, but I’ve been conditioned to believe that relationships mean being taken advantage of. And they mean being hurt.

So I had shut it all out.

I stopped feeling, stopped wanting to be attached. I professed openly that I didn’t believe in romantical love, or the institution of marriage, and that I was quite content being single for the rest of my life. I kept my heart hard, and my thoughts harder.

The fire from the ashes was out, so that wasn’t what was burning my soul as I looked into the mirror. It was the words of my journey that were igniting me.

And then, I cried. It was a good start to my path of feeling brokenness and vulnerability. At first I wasn’t really sure why I was crying, but then I realized I needed to purge my body of everything that had been hurting me. I needed to physically get it out, all of it out. All of the weight, the scars, the pain. The hurt.

And when I stopped crying, I was ready.

If the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, I’m still not convinced the journey of a lifetime begins by diving in. Or jumping feet first, first time. I’ve decided that we should be belly flopping.

The shared problem between the first two approaches I examined earlier is that both put the heart in the middle. I don’t want my heart to be guarded by my groundings or by my thoughts, but for it to guide the two.

Guide my feet,
light my path,
hold my hand,
while I run this race
for I don’t want to run this race in vain…

On one of our first dates I said to him I just want to let you know that when things start going good, I tend to pull away. Its silly, but it’s what I do. I get scared.

He held my hand a little tighter and said I won’t let you. I’ll pull you back.

The way I look at it, if we belly flop, we can’t pull away. If our feet, heads, and hearts are on the same level, none will have the dominance to make decisions for the others. Not just in love, but in life.

Even if he would pull me back, I’m finding (for the first time) I don’t want to pull away.

I’m learning. It’s only been a week since Lent has started, but I’m learning.

Tony has said on a few occasions, always with a smile, “Learning is fun, isn’t it?”

And with him, it is.

“It will teach you to love what you’re  a f r a i d   o f
(After it takes away all that)
You learn to love, but you don’t always have to hold your head
Higher than your heart.”

::or::

“Your voice is your own, I can’t protect it
You’ll have to sing
A verse no one has ever known
(Don’t be afraid, cause no one ever sings alone)
Your weight will never be too much for me”

Jack Johnson’s new CD, Sleep Through the Static, came out today.  While I have not yet purchased it, you better believe I was quick to stalk the new lyrics online.  And rightfully so.  Jack, can we discuss how much I appreciate that you write songs about my life?

…since love is lord of heaven and earth, how can i keep from singing?

“The real lover is the man who can thrill you just by touching your head or smiling into your eyes or by just staring into space.”

~Marilyn Monroe