Sunday was Ascension Sunday at church. Well
I suppose it was more than just at church, but that's where people
recognize it most. Well, maybe the guy using the lift at Home Depot
knows about ascension, Sunday, but when I stopped by the grocery store,
they didn't seem to care.
"It's Ascension Sunday."
"Aisle five, next to the feminine care products."
"What?"
"Aisle five."
I was curious but I couldn't go. I'm a guy, I don't go down that aisle. I tried to give a little girl five bucks to go down and tell me what she saw. I even offered her some candy and a movie camera but her mom saw me. I think she misunderstood. Mom
swooped down, whisking her muppet wielding moppet away. She flew over
to the store security nest, squawking and flailing talons in my
direction.
I'm not sure what I'm afraid of, but I think that's the point: fear of the unknown. Yup,
unknown and feminine care products: the two things guys fear most. I
don't know why, we should jump at anything called "feminine care." Most
of us suck at it.
Oh,
we'll tell you the big story about how we nursed our ex
girlfriend/wife/mother from the brink of death from some Stephen King
worthy rhinovirus while holding a puppy and sprinkling rose petals,
singing songs of love and adoration. It's a great story with a happy
ending. Everybody, "awwww." Thank you.
The
real story sounds like this, "mmmm mfmfm, mmm--" oh wait, let me
translate the words behind the hazmat mask, "ok, I've moved the
microwave in here, there's a can of soup in there. You'll probably want to open that and put it in a bowl before you start the microwave though. I've
got you a box of Kleenex, and the trashcan is there next to the bed.
When you feel better, please seal the bag and spray it with the Lysol
on the nightstand. I'll take it out for you. The TV is there, I've used the Seal-a-meal to make a remote control condom. Is there anything else? I'll take that noise to mean no. Ok, I'm going to brush your cheek with the sterile tongs before I go to show I love you. Oh, was that cold, I'm sorry. Knock twice when you feel better and I'll let you out."
Yeah, we have a lot to learn about compassion. We suck. You women got the compassion gene, we got the "I'm gonna futz with it until I break it more" gene. Even trade. Church is the perfect place to experience that. Women are greeters, guys act as ushers. Women shake hands, hug, kiss cheeks, and let new people know they're welcome. Guys
spend 15 minutes trying to figure out how to get the offering plate
from one end of the guy-sitting-alone pew to the other to maintain
offering plate balance.
"Look, I don't care if your wife left you and your children hate you, this plate needs to get to that side of the pew so Phil can pass it back to me down the next row. I can't hold two plates at a time. You have problems? Tell a greeter."
"Thanks for your compassion, Rob. I hope you put this in your blog."
"I will. It's a testament to my compassion."
"I'm sure it is."
Other
than Ascension Sunday, today is also Confirmand Sunday. It's the Sunday
the kids are confirmed as full members of the church and allowed to
receive communion. It's a big deal for them and their parents. For me, it means church will last a little longer. I need to explain to the pastor that I work after church. He needs to adhere his ceremony to my schedule.
Sure enough I check my iPhone during the closing hymn. It's 12:30; I should have been out of here a half hour ago. We wrap up our praise ditty, and I scramble for the door. I
knocked an old woman over as I hopped a pew, but that got three other
women out of my way when they rushed to help her: mission accomplished.
There were a few confirmands receiving welcome handshakes between me
and the door, but an elbow to the kidney and the little robed figures
crumpled away like gauzy curtains.
I shake hands with the pastor and am on my way out the door when I feel a hand on my shoulder. It's a gentle touch. I pause. A
woman whispers in my ear, "I wanted to tell you Rob, I read your blog
last week. It was really good, you're a talented writer, and I can see
how people can find inspiration in it." The hand let's go and I turn around. It's Kim Green. She's gone back to help a teen angel clutching his kidney.
Ok, well I can wait a minute to talk to her before I go to work. I stand in the courtyard outside the church while she attends the casualties. When she's done, she comes out for the last one.
"I don't want to embarrass you. I just thought you should know that I read it and it made me laugh."
"Thank you."
Her
husband, Adam, steps out carrying their little boy. Dad's eying me,
with his arms protectively wrapped around Junior's kidneys. I smile. Kim goes over and takes her son. They're both all smiles. She likes my blog? She's clearly delusional. Does her husband know this? More importantly, from what tree did he pick this Eve from, and are there any more?
Adam see's the question in my eyes. He smiles. "You have a good week, Rob." With God and Kim's help, Adam's closer to ascension than I could ever be.
"You too, Adam." I'd offer him a prayer, but he's already been blessed.
