Good Friday
Friday was a day of exhaustion.
Exhaustion from the festivities of Thursday that seemed to carry over. Exhaustion from the built-up stresses of the week. And, eventually, exhaustion from what was experienced, and what was not overheard.
After work I went to my church's presentation of Stations of the Cross. (We are clearly not your typical Baptists.) It was completely unlike previous incarnations of Stations. It was not the standard experience of following Jesus through snapshots of Good Friday. I have never, in three or four years of participating, understood or connected with Stations in standard form.
This version of Stations was more of a step back, mirroring much of the ministry of Jesus rather than a span of a few hours. It mirrored rather than followed, in that the stories were not explicitly told. This was an exercise in introspection, application. It was a journey of solitude. And for the first time ever, I was able to connect. It was intense.
When I was finished, the first person I met outside was my friend on staff who had narrated each Station. (There were discmans- or discmen- at each). He was drinking a soda. I commented that I'd been hearing him quite a bit in the last hour. He nearly snorted his soda. I asked another staffer when my shift to help out was set to start, because I'd never heard for sure, and I found out I was only needed for tear down. At 10. It was 7. So I got dinner and went home to take a nap.
No sooner had I turned off the light than Dad's phone rang. It was his Air Force buddy with whom he speaks two or three times a year. They talked for a half hour. Half of Dad's side consisted of sc0tlas this, sc0tlas that, go to YouTube... From that conversation, one might conclude that the man has one son, an only child. Not a single mention of the other. I don't exist.
I left a bit early. Both staff pastors, four other core staffers, myself and ten others turned the Stations labyrinth back into a functional church sanctuary in two hours. As we pulled up the path that was taped to the carpet, Big Brother and I engaged in some friendly sibling rivalry. As we set up the chairs at the end, Philosopher Pastor was unstacking them, and I was connecting them into rows, except he was a little... overzealous in the unstacking. Those chairs were flying at me.
Later, we switched, and I unstacked.
I sat on the planter wall outside. It was quiet. It was not too cold. There were no stars, but there never are, so that was ok. I took a little more friendly teasing from Philosopher, then I went home.
And apparently, I still have some poetry left in me, after all.
Exhaustion from the festivities of Thursday that seemed to carry over. Exhaustion from the built-up stresses of the week. And, eventually, exhaustion from what was experienced, and what was not overheard.
After work I went to my church's presentation of Stations of the Cross. (We are clearly not your typical Baptists.) It was completely unlike previous incarnations of Stations. It was not the standard experience of following Jesus through snapshots of Good Friday. I have never, in three or four years of participating, understood or connected with Stations in standard form.
This version of Stations was more of a step back, mirroring much of the ministry of Jesus rather than a span of a few hours. It mirrored rather than followed, in that the stories were not explicitly told. This was an exercise in introspection, application. It was a journey of solitude. And for the first time ever, I was able to connect. It was intense.
When I was finished, the first person I met outside was my friend on staff who had narrated each Station. (There were discmans- or discmen- at each). He was drinking a soda. I commented that I'd been hearing him quite a bit in the last hour. He nearly snorted his soda. I asked another staffer when my shift to help out was set to start, because I'd never heard for sure, and I found out I was only needed for tear down. At 10. It was 7. So I got dinner and went home to take a nap.
No sooner had I turned off the light than Dad's phone rang. It was his Air Force buddy with whom he speaks two or three times a year. They talked for a half hour. Half of Dad's side consisted of sc0tlas this, sc0tlas that, go to YouTube... From that conversation, one might conclude that the man has one son, an only child. Not a single mention of the other. I don't exist.
I left a bit early. Both staff pastors, four other core staffers, myself and ten others turned the Stations labyrinth back into a functional church sanctuary in two hours. As we pulled up the path that was taped to the carpet, Big Brother and I engaged in some friendly sibling rivalry. As we set up the chairs at the end, Philosopher Pastor was unstacking them, and I was connecting them into rows, except he was a little... overzealous in the unstacking. Those chairs were flying at me.
Are you trying to kill me?
Nah. Not today. I can't guarantee anything for tomorrow, though. ;)
I know my name means Follower of Christ, but I wasn't aware it was going to be that literal, and at the hands of my pastor.
Later, we switched, and I unstacked.
You're much nicer than me. You're not throwing them.It was ten minutes to midnight. One reason I love working tear-down after Stations is these interactions that happen. In those two hours I was around a few people who actually do like me, and I didn't have time to think about my lack of existence at home. Of course, those thoughts came swarming as soon as the work was done.
I just recognize that we still need you.
I sat on the planter wall outside. It was quiet. It was not too cold. There were no stars, but there never are, so that was ok. I took a little more friendly teasing from Philosopher, then I went home.
And apparently, I still have some poetry left in me, after all.
Labels: Family
posted by The Other Gatekeeper at
10:15 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home