Greshniku

I have this gorgeous zip spider outside of the window my desk faces. I’ve apparently gotten a little attached to her (yeah - I named her - Irina.) And, you know, started using her as the voice for my thoughts…

July 23, 2009
The fly I caught yesterday was delicious, but its struggle had torn and stripped my beautiful home, so last night I remade the web. This morning, my finished artwork glistened with the morning dew in elaborate and intricate perfection. I sat proudly in the middle of my creation and home, watching the geese in the distance and feeling connected to God in that way that only art could create. I had made something beautiful with grace and excellence, and I was content.

Of course, all things are temporary.

I knew it was risky to connect the west side of my thin net to a stack of plastic deck chairs, which are hardly stationary during the day. But the chairs’ stored location offered me the ability to anchor my web in the corner of the window and stretch across, just barely teasing the sunshine on the other side. It was an ideal location, and the risk was worth the reward.

I had just settled in to enjoy the day from my precariously invisible masterpiece, when two women arrived. They needed to use the porch for their scheduled prayer time. The day was glorious, the sun barely shining through the gathered clouds and the wind gently whispering through the trees. The porch was an ideal place for them to experience the glory of God together. But in their pursuit of such glory, they inadvertently disturbed my expression of it.

As they pulled chairs from the stack, unknowingly stretching and shredding my fragile creation, I clung to the strings of my toppling home and hoped that something would remain in the aftermath for me to hold on to. Fortunately, a few threads graciously held fast, and my life - at least today - is still intact.

I’ve begun rebuilding, but I decided to take a break to recognize the absolute beauty - and fragility - of my existence. But that’s the way it goes sometimes…

I didn’t expect to like it.

I noticed the tiny Baptist church off the highway, and decided to go purely because I needed a church to go to the first Sunday I was in town. So I noted the time of the service and tucked it away in my mind as an easily dismissed alternative.

Sunday morning, I rose and dressed up just enough to blend in. My goal was to slip in the back and spend the hour in unnoticed participation and observation, and then go on my way. It seemed like the perfect plan.

I pulled into the parking lot and noticed with relief that there were plenty of cars and that I should be able to remain anonymous.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Upon walking in, I was immediately spotted as a visitor and eager natives began swarming around me. Introductions were made. Smiles were exchanged. I answered repeated questions about where I lived, where I came from, and what I was doing in Louisville. The pastor wrote down my name, and to my surprise and embarrassment, he introduced me from the pulpit to the few people in the room who had not already noticed the presence of an outsider among them. The greeting time that followed brought another wave of introductions, smiles, and questions.

Once the service started, the critical side of me started in. The church was tiny - maybe 40 attenders. The songs were old hymns chalk-full of tradition and conservatism. There wasn’t a single other person in my life category (unmarried, mid 20s).

In the midst of my critique, I stopped. Sitting around me were people. Beautiful, genuine people who were showing an eagerness to love and include me. Their lives were flawed and chipped and completely enchanting. In their tiny gestures of greeting, they were offering me protection and friendship and family. I found myself thinking about how I could be at home there, and how I was already attached to the people sitting around me. How could I ever leave these people? I knew, sitting there, that they would be hurt if I didn’t come back, because they’d offered me a doorway into their lives and given me the opportunity to accept them.

And despite all of my intentions to be aloof, mysterious, and disconnected, I found myself involved, open, and with a serious and tangible desire to be intertwined.

Which was, you know, the last thing I’d expected.