The book sat in front of me as I maneuvered between phone and computer screens. Seven spreadsheets were open in individual tabs and I moved information from sheet to sheet, trying to whittle the seven down to two coherent reports.
One group would be accepted into a pilot program, the other would be politely informed that we'd had far more applicants than we planned to accommodate.
If irony exists, it may well be found in this remaining detail: the pilot program was for people who feel rejected. My job now was to reject the rejects as well as to reject all notions of rejection. .
Besides, last night had been the kind that turned into This Morning without warning- one or two quick tasks had turned into hours of fine tuning.
And so, I had made the coffee extra strong this morning
I found a sliver of resolve in the bottom of my third cup of tar. I would finish these reports and re-start my day anew after a shower.
The phone rang as I scavenged the second floor for a clean towel. 'All I need is one' I muttered to myself as I kicked a mountain of used, damp towels towards the washing machine. We'd only returned home late yeaterday from a week and a half long road trip. There'd been no time to do laundry yet. Even when there is time, it is often the chore we most neglect.
I could hear my husband speaking with the caller, his tone alarming me that once he'd hung up, I wasn't going to like whatever had been said.
After twenty years, a woman knows her husband and after that much time, a man has a pretty good guess about his wife.
We were both right, I didn't like it. His parents would be dropping by in half an hour and we- which is to say he- had blown our chance of escape by answering the phone.
Now hiding behind the LazBoy until they went away would only make them angry.
Dear Jesus.
Sometimes the shortest prayers are most concise.
I spent the next 29 minutes cleaning everything- first a whirlwind of tidying the house, then an overdue shower. I was still contemplating what to wear when the doorbell rang.
I finished dressing and sloshed downstairs to hug my inlaws; gingerly, so as not to wet them with my dripping hair.
I took a chair at the dining room table where my father in law was sitting. I tried not to notice him chipping away at a splotch of teal blue paint on the table.
The table had been theirs before. Nice furniture has always been important to them, as are family heirlooms.
They'd left the table with us in their haste to move to the mountains a year and a half ago. We'd given them some money for it and other items we would use, money to hasten their move.
Nice furniture is nice, don't get me wrong. I try to keep things nice, to the best of my ability. It is an ability, however, which at my best, is still pretty lacking. It is not that I don't value the blessing of useable items. It is that I value more giving my children the freedom to create and explore, to learn hands-on, to enjoy extra glitter.
I had painted cowbells for the boys' football Booster club before our mandatory 'evacucation' because I value showing my kids that I support them.
The paint had been the result of an unfortunate failure to read the bottle's entire label.
I don't fret over most paint spills and splotches at our homeschool table because acrylic cleans up fairly easily.
The bright peacock blue, it turned out-as designated in small white print on the label- was not acrylic however, it was enamel.
Sitting at the table, my father-in-law and I did not represent diametrically opposed people so much as two vastly differing philosophies.
He is a self- made man and I'm a do-it-yourselfer.
The line between: a spider's silk, fathoms and fathoms wide.
We both value education and the spiritual plane, we both read books and think on things a bit deeply. When we share space, we are kind and respectful and an unspoken agreement hovers between us: Just because one of us is right doesn't mean the other has to be wrong.
But even more quietly, we each believe the other to be the most wrong. Absolutely, fundamentally, inexcusably wrong.
The older I get, the more I appreciate contrast.
Crandall seemed to realize all at once that he was scraping the paint and quietly flicked the specks from his fingers. He slid his phone over the splotch and laid it on top, as if to hide it from someone, or perhaps to cover an embarrassment . His? Mine? Ours.
And then he cleared his throat and turned to the nearest grandchild.
"What's new with you? What are you learning in school?"
Before the visit ends, we will all have been put in the spotlight. Or on the spot.
I don't believe the inevitable rounds of questioning are meant the way it often feels. I really believe he just wants to hear what's new, and so he goes around the room for individual reports on the latest in each person's life.
One of the first books he ever recommended to me was 'The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People'. He's into corporate leadership. The questions are just his go to reflex in a crowd. I think. My crowd reflex is to find the furthest wall and help to hold it up.
We all have our ways.
My turn rolled around. He didn't bring up the paint. In years past, when both our edges were less smoothed, he may have said something like "Been doing some art?" or something not so very subtle or soft.
And in turn I would have probably left the room.
He said "What about you, doing anything creative these days?"
And there was dignity in the question.
He'd seen me making a few notes and glancing at the work that I had postponed to take my shower. He deduced I was probably up to something- again.
There have been times I might hear his question and the dialect translate "Do you actually do anything?" but this time, I saw a glint of light and realized it may be the proverbial door of opportunity creaking open.
I launched into my answer with genuine enthusiasm.
I should mention that I am always looking for that glint of light. This would not be my first attempt at sliding a little thought-bait onto the hook with Crandall. And please, no talk about hiding my candle under a bushel, no!
I've never had a problem letting my light shine out in the open and Crandall has never had a problem blowing it out with gusto.
He knows what I'm about and I know the parts he can't reconcile himself to. Any steps he takes in my direction will only be because he wants a closer look for himself; a look at those things that make me strange.
And so- I showed him first the "adulting" books we were using for homeschool this semester and explained the idea was to cover those little things we tend to learn about the hard way in a fun way.
He chuckled over the book of adulting stickers with mini-life lessons printed as achievements. His favorite: 'I Knew When To Say When!'
I moved on to the book sitting atop my project pile. The greeter at my proverbial door of opportunity. Perhaps I could just manage to wedge my little toe between the door and jamb before it closed...
I explained the project and the book's premise of not fitting in with traditional church culture; I mentioned the irony of having to send rejection letters to those who already feel rejected.
"That is an interesting subject. It is really quite interesting." he said.
And I could tell he meant it.
A memory flashed then, of a time when we had all visited the same church together for several weeks in a row. My, how I had believed the door may be opening then.
We are spared so much by our inability to see the future. I am certain of it.
The church we attended was-still is- growing very rapidly. To get a seat, one must show up early. To get seats for seven, one must say a prayer and cross their fingers for good measure. It was not unusual for us to split between two or three pews. But on this Sunday, we had managed to fill one entire pew as a family. Until after 'hand shaking' time, that is.
Thinking there was an empty space, a gentleman slid into the spot where my eldest son had been sitting. Turning around from greeting the folks in the pew behind him, Crandall noticed the newcomer and proceeded to poke him in the shoulder rather gruffly. "I'm sorry but you've taken my grandson's seat. Could you move?" That was the beginning of a hot tempered exchange whose details I have purposely dulled in my memory. It was embarrassing. Not how one is supposed to act in church, you know.
There are many ways to misfit.
Shortly after this, like the very next Sunday, activities at my in-laws masonic lodge became increasingly demanding- they needed to be at this function then that dinner and just like that, they've never looked back or bothered with trying to find a pew big enough to hold all that we bring to church with us on Sunday mornings.
Hearing that he found it interesting, and hearing what might be a question mark in his voice, I further explained that I relate to the author in an intellectual way. That neither he nor myself- nor a whole slew of people it turns out- emote in church with hands raised high and decorum abandoned. I said that we didn't check our brains before approaching God.
An understanding nod. He's an engineer. He likes solutions.
I told him the book wasn't released yet but that when it became available, I would send him a copy. I explained that was part of my role in the project: word of (big) mouth.
He replied in true Crandall form: "That's very interesting. It's definitely a true issue. And you're doing all this for free."
It wasn't a question.
Though it did sound a bit like "Let me guess..."
At least this many years in, we have a pretty good guess about each other.
I confirmed his supposition and took him a step further, explaining that each of the people who'd written in are a part of my family. They don't belong to an author's fan base, rather we all belong, together.
There's no way I would accept admission to a place that ought to be free. It wouldn't even be the same thing to me, if it were in any way about compensation.
A nod. Bemusement? Perplexion? He had expected as much- typical from me.
Time changes us, yet we are always, ever ourselves.
I told him that if he wanted to get a feel for what the author has to say before the book releases, he should check out the related podcast where we discuss these things but also other things- fun things, like toast and goats and deal breaker questions. I told him listening was really like the having the book broadcast on-air.
We went on to talk about his work with Shriner's hospitals (which I countered with highlights from Tebow & CURE; one of my favorite counterpoints with him but that's story for another day); he shared about his fancy degree, complete with a bronze medal, bestowed on him by that grand poobah brotherhood.
During lunch at the Mexican buffet, he pulled up pictures on his phone of their recent tour through Mexico City and all the tequila they'd drunk there.
I don't know, maybe he feels his religion serves him well enough. Things our human hearts desire: fun, good works and high esteem all served on gilded platters. It feels important to wear a fancy tall hat.
Light helps us see contrast. Sometimes it takes distance or an extreme degree of darkness before we can detect its presence, but the thing about light is this: even the smallest pin prick can pierce the darkest expanse. It can expand to fill the void around it or be channeled into laser precision, removing cancerous growths from deep beneath our skin.
On his phone, the link to a radio show for misfits sits waiting to be clicked.
"Send that to me." he'd said. "I'll forget how to find it elsewise."
And so I did, followed by the author's friendly welcome to come, sit with us and dine.
It is but a tiny flicker, but imagine if it helps this man to see!
This man, father of my husband, perpetually seeking "Light" looking up to see that all along, the Answer has been seeking him, too.