The Monk and the Devil

Not Just Marking Time

There she was, in all her glory. She had on a big, red apron, channeling Rosie the Riveter. This gal wasn't working with metal or guns or planes. She was in the kitchen at Hardee's, of all places, covered with flour. Her work-wear face not flinching, writ with years of life experience. It threw me back in time, to all the many Southern kitchens I've been privileged to experience. Old women, full of wisdom and fire, working mysteries with white powder and butter. As a child, I would pass through those hallowed halls, awed by the power of food and sage women. I didn't stop on my way through, no, I was on my way to the outdoors, the woods and the ball fields. I got the lucky choice of playing in either place. 

Country rides were a favorite pastime of our family. Windows cranked down, dust roiling behind the car like tumbleweeds. We would make stops at various relatives' homes. Wooden, unsophisticated houses with no paint, pigs under the porch, dogs panting in the heat. The adults would sit inside while the kids poked around the creek or the barn. If we were really blessed, we'd get to ride somebody's pony and get bucked off in the process. My siblings and I might be some of the last generation to see these remnants of the Old South, the parts where the steam rose off the field, poor people worked hard for a living, fourty was old, and nobody seemed ashamed of what they didn't have. Maybe they were, it just didn't seem like it. I only saw bits and pieces of it, like dusky whispers on a hot June morning. Stopping by little creeks to fish. Trolling through miles of countryside without hurrying. Those things we know nothing about now. I remember the smells, the animals, the old people. I recall tiredness, but deep contentment. Houses baking in the sun, the big, sprawling brick ranches saved for the rich people. Cicadas buzzing, time standing still. It did stand still. Now it won't stop, but I'm thankful. I've seen the vestiges of the past and yet I'm standing in the future. The greatest generation, they're passing in front of me. The millenials, they're coming behind me. What a great time to be alive. 

Monsters are Real!

The old dragon sat dully, stuffed into his truck like a toad, eyes bulging. When I first saw him, he was puffing up like an adder, waiting to explode. He spied me walking across the lawn and I met the force of his vitriol as I made my way down the hill. I extended my hand but was met with hot breath and spittle, as he spat out his pent-up hate. My thought was that the only thing between me and certain death was his old beat-up vehicle. That, and not a few years of too many carbs on his frame. Of course I had left my gun in my car this one time that I might have needed it. Visions of Annie Oakley ran through my mind as I called upon the Lord to go ahead and send those 10,000 chariots right about now. 

I had never been cussed out, until that day. I am 57 years old and have lived a sheltered life, since I've never had the experience of getting brutally beat up, verbally or otherwise. I've had the rare blessing of being surrounded by good, noble men all my days. My husband, Daddy, sons, brother, brother-in-laws, father-in-law, nephews, pastors, elders, brothers in Christ.... so many great men. As I stood beneath the gale force of an evil man's barrage, spitless, my thoughts began floating around, pondering my sisters in the world who hate men and who wrestle with feminism in their souls. Maybe this is what they faced as children. Maybe dragons such as this rendered them powerless, so that when they escaped they armed themselves to the hilt that it might never happen again. God help.

I was calm, but quietly bipped the dragon in the nose with truth as I was able. I also rebuked his repulsive language, only to be met with more of it. Time was on my side, as he began to lose steam and strength. My gaze and prayers kept steady, until I saw his mind begin to right itself. Somewhere in there he regretted what he had done and began to realize the possible ramifications of his actions. Eventually he apologized for his language and asked if he had ruined our deal. I told him I didn't know. That opened another sluice gate of rancor, pouring out. I wondered what conspired to make this madman so angry, so full of hurt that he would delight in hurting other people. It could be a lot of things, either within or without. In the end, we are all responsible for what we do with that. I believe it is God's grace that enables anyone to rise above their depravity. We can cloak it with manners, money, strength, perfume and youth, but when it gets down to the end and we're out of all those resources, I'm banking on Him. The old fart dragon might oughta watch his back.

Lord of the Digits

The world has to stop spinning when you get a pedicure. You're kind-of trapped there, with the warm water swirling around your feet. If you're lucky, and the massage chair isn't murdering your back with strange mechanical demons, you get all cozy and relaxed. I really have no business exposing my bare feet to anyone, particularly strangers, but I still do it. I only wear shoes to placate the conventional world. I even have sets of barefoot sandals (they don't have soles), where I try to deceive people into thinking I have shoes on, when I really don't. It would help, if my feet were at least passable in appearance. They are not. They yearn to break free and they mostly hurt, so I indulge them. They're actually too knobby and gnarly for anything but sandals and the warm earth beneath, but apparently this condition is rare. When I saw Lord of the Rings on the big screen for the first time, I was so happy to see that there were other people with feet like mine. But then the movie was over and I remembered that Hobbits aren't real. Very strange tootsie-roll DNA runs strong through the Slate family toes. The gene is very persistent, and you can see it running through the generations. I do believe my brother-in-law hesitated to marry my sister after he saw her feet. He's so very proud of his, and the thought of exposing his progeny to those future genetic combinations might have given him pause. But alas, her other charms, which are myriad, overwhelmed him and now they have eleven children with (mostly) Hobbit feet. My brother's six children are running along similar paths. Grandpa Jerry is with Jesus now, but there's no denying he was here. We see his DNA busting out everywhere. 

This week, as an impossibly tiny woman worked her magic on my digits, I wondered what she thought about women like me, with large, firm foundations, while trying to tidy up those mangy hooves? Hooves got me to thinking about God, how He made almost every creature (that walks on legs) with tools. Our appendages all end in some form of keratin, which we spend insane amounts of money buffing and painting into mostly unnatural shapes. He put these cool, natural utensils on the ends of most mammals' extremities. We humans stuff ours into shoes and forget how to use them. They can be pretty handy while climbing trees and such.

I tried to squeeze into some actual shoes today, after half a year of making like a hippie in bare feet and sandals. It's starting to get nippy in the mornings, so I guess I need to start training these puppies to tolerate a little restraint. I suffered with the constrictions of a million little leather cells trying to force my happy bones into strange places. I don't think that Hobbits ever had to submit to such injustices. I have a feeling it's going to be a long winter...