I’ve been feeling a little beat up lately over various and sundry things, so I’m trying to take it easy today. First I went to the gym, where I was able to 1)work out some angst on the treadmill and 2)give my full-paid childcare card which I never use any more to a passing acquaintance who still takes her younger child to the childcare facilities there. This made me feel better because I am a part of a practicing Ordinary Attempts group, and apart praying for the all-male mostly-gay staff at Olive Garden (Dear Lord, please let the people who come here after church on Sunday nights tips these guys really really well. And don’t let any of them leave behind tracks of “The Four Spiritual Laws.”) I’ve really fallen down on the OA job lately. So I was happy to have this little love-on-someone opportunity.

Even though I did the treadmill and my weights-sit-ups-lunges routine (three weeks of not doing it = pain tomorrow), I had an hour left before I had to pick up Cate from preschool. Still feeling sad and angsty, I headed over to St. Mark’s Cathedral to walk the labyrinth. This really nice guy I know, Dan Niven, sets up labyrinths here and there in Seattle and he’s got two taped out in corner at St. Marks. I usually have to haul folding chairs or rolling room dividers off of them in order to walk one without crashing into something. But I still try to go every other week or so. I love the feeling of spiraling in towards the center, towards God; pausing there with him; sort of downloading the Spirit; then journeying with him outwards to walk together through the world. I usually walk the cold concrete in my stocking feet, and I often pause at the mouth of the lab when I’m done, a little unwilling to step out of my God womb and move out into reality. Reluctant to step into my everyday shoes and start walking on regular ground.

Today I sat in the center and wondered if it was naughty of me to feel sad that women are treated poorly by the church. I mean, there are many, many worse things happening in the world, especially in the developing world, and people seem to bear up joyfully under those circumstances. Maybe it’s a flaw in my character to feel so beat down by these little western realities: men who don’t understand me, a community half in the dark. I felt tired too, drained by this new reformation that I am a part of. I wished that Brian McClaren’s A Generous Orthodoxy was as readily available to me and my kin as Calvin’s Institutes is available to our forbearers. I wished that I didn’t have to be confused by the violence that surrounds the cross, that I didn’t have to dive into Proverbs of Ashes and think so hard about atonement theology. I wished that my theology was just naturally able to look people in the eye. And I felt wimpy. Lame about the fact that I am always just one toss of the juggling pin away from toppling this trick of mother-wife-pastor-person-friend-volunteer-business partner-prophet-speaker-writer that I am trying to pull off. A visit from some family members, a sick child, a special event and it all comes toppling down. Laundry piles up. The ring builds in the bathtub. Important emails go unanswered. My energy tanks. Finally, I had to get up from my lotus position at the heart of the labyrinth and walk out. I had to walk to the front of the cathedral and whisper to the rosetta cross of glass and steel, “You’re coming back right? You’re still here?” I had to turn and move towards the door.

On my way out, I always stop at this great earthen bowl that rests on a stand directly in front of the center doors. It is filled with water, and colored stones look up at you from the bottom. Sort of an Episcopalian take on holy water I guess. I always touch its still surface to make it ripple. I usually touch a drop or two to my forehead or my tongue. Today I was anxious to feel the cool of the water. When I saw the great bowl waiting at the end of the aisle my step quickened and I felt, for the first time, a little hopeful. But when I curled my hand over the rim of the bowl and looked into the basin I realized it was empty. It had been drained for Lent. The rocks at the bottom were dry, their colors faded without the water to freshen them. It took my breath away for a moment, this startling unexpected reality. We journey with Christ in the desert. This barrenness is part of his course. Wilderness lies in his shadow. His curving path leads here.