In the Fik of it

I glanced down at my watch as I waited for my ride and by the time I looked up, Bob was standing in front of me.  Bob had done me a small service that took roughly the amount of time that I’d spent glancing down and making a note of the hour.  By the time I’d seen midnight on the dial, Bob had shooed away a wild-eyed, homeless man who who came bounding across the street and was about to hit me up for money, point out where he lived, and warn me of the impending apocalypse; or at least in the millisecond that it all happened, that’s what I think he was attempting to do. Bob calmly told the gentleman “hey, wut-chew botherin’ deze fellas for? Wut dey done to you? Go on down da street and bodder sommin’ eltse” .  Bob looked at me for a moment then continued scanning the ground for plastic bottles and metal cans.  He had on a large backpack and carried a garbage bag full of cans over his shoulder and it was clear that he’d not seen an easy life in a good, long, while; if ever.  Bob con

In her bedroom I can still smell the scent of her shampoo; I run my fingers along the top edge of the Dutch door and remember seeing that little face laughing out at me in the middle of the night.   At that time I was more emotionally than physically tired from trudging up and down those stairs for any one of a million reasons, and for nearly as many times.   Sometimes on those trips I’d have to negotiate things that had been ripped off the walls and tossed out the door and down the stairs.   I’d crawl over pictures, bedding, clothes, diapers, and confront a half-dressed, hysterically laughing face.   Pure delight, largely on her part. Now I look at those stairs, that door, the pretty pink walls.   I look at the window that I’d replaced after the night I heard glass break and ran up those same stairs to see a little hind-end pointed at me while her upper-end leaned out the window and joyfully ripped flowers out of the flower box, laughing as she dropped them to the dark ground bel

I pray with one eye open at these services, as I fear that I may miss a significant event such as a tossed toy, a runaway resident, a pinch and a shove, or even the return of the Lord.  Any of those have an equal chance of happening if I close both eyes to pray.  We’ve been attending church here for about 3 months and honestly; it’s a beautiful experience.   Imagine mashing the spiritual passion and activity of a Pentecostal church* service with the unpredictability of live television.   Perhaps that’s what’s missing in most mainstream Christian churches today, passion and unpredictability.   Here, in a service designed for Special Needs individuals with as broad a range of needs as you can imagine, The Holy Spirit not only has, but exercises free range and while I have no doubt that [He’s] present at all the other churches, I think His preference is here, with the people who love him unconditionally.   They love Him with screams, slurs, and wiggles.   They love Him through pl