Etta Marie and take out

"Every Sunday night I wonder why rich people waste so much money on their pets," said Barry as his slurped down another rice noodle.

"This pays half my rent. Poodles for noodles, Barry. Be happy I'm buying," said Etta Marie.

"If you move in with me, no more park. No more walking in the rain. No more poodles with ribbons. It's because I'm Jewish, right?"

"What?"

"It's because I live by the train?"

"What do they say about housing? Oh yes: Location, location, location."

"Etta! You could ditch this dog job and move in, you know it. I've asked you, what, eight times?"

"It's because I can't stand you, Barry. I can't stand people who are in love with me. Don't you get it?"

He folded the carton around the chop sticks and grimaced. "It's annoying?"

"It's too much."

"It works fine in the movies."

"Yes, it does," she agreed.

Barry flopped his feet on the coffee table, and scratched his stubble. "You really have to be sensible, Etta."

"Get your feet off the table, Barry."

"It would never work, would it?" he groaned.

"Probably not."

"I'll see you next week then."

"Okay. Bring a movie next time," she smiled.

George steals the sport page

Etta Marie's neighbor George steals the sports page, now and then, out of Etta Marie's newspaper before she gets it. he reads it and then uses it from his cat litter box. She can't prove it, but it seems to be true. Why won't he buy his own paper?" she thinks. "Why doesn't he just ask for that section? I'd give it to him. I don't really read the sports page unless I'm very bored, she thinks. Maybe he isn't stealing it. Maybe it's just missing sometimes, but that doesn't make sense either.

Etta Marie sets her alarm for 5:30a.m. and waits for the newspaper. She makes coffee. She blots her eyes with cold compresses. Allergies have taken their toll. She is not a morning person. She hates George with a tiny piece of her heart, but she isn't sure it's warranted, not yet, or ever. God doesn't like this. It's true. She sips coffee, and presses her nose to the door, and her eye to the peep hole. Her breath mists the lens.

Soon the newspaper flops to her doormat, and a moment later, a dark figure rummages through it, delicately, but who? She fumbles with her locks. The thief scoots away, and into the shadows. Etta Marie puts a smooth orange yellow stone in her mouth from the mason jar on her table, and folds it in her tongue. Why is life so strange? She tastes a hint of sand and salt on the stone. She thinks of the beach, of the gulls, of and waves.

She gulps and swallows and starts her day, early.

Etta Marie Swallows Stones- entry 1

Every day Etta Marie swallows one smooth stone. Some people swallow vitamins. Sometimes Etta takes vitamins, with food at breakfast, but this is different. This is neurotic. This habit goes way back, fourteen years, to a 21st birthday. Etta gathered 365 stones to swallow--one for every day--and each and every day she pops one carefully choosen smooth stone, in and holds it in her mouth and thinks for a long time.

She feels it in there, cold and round and smooth, and she wonders about all kind of things about life. She feels its heaviness, and just when the absurdity hits her, she takes a big gulp, and swallows it whole, and goes about her day as usual. Except Etta Marie's days are never usual, because Etta Marie is quite intense.

Welcome to The Adventures of Etta Marie

A bit in the way of explanation . . .

A character came to mind today, Etta Marie, so I'm going to give her some life here, and maybe we'll have some fun together. It's my summer fun, my short story, novella, romp. Or maybe more. . . .


Please comment, advise Etta, join in, and enjoy it. Above all do that!

seeing a person right

. . . when you see a person rightly, you comprehend that they are human. To be human isn't to be material, only material -that is made of clay. It is to be God - breathed into - So, we each have our God-breathed-into-ness about us. We aren't God ourselves, little gods, no, but that spark of something extraordinary is certainly there, and we cannot for a moment pretend that every person doesn't have this outrageous dignity, this divine impairment that separates them from the rest of creation. From the child to the elderly, the poorest of the poor to the rich tycoon, we have equal part God-breath within.

Some would convince us that sin cancels much of this goodness away, and we may falter greatly, or give our selves to evil. This does tarnish things quite a bit. But I contend, if we really see people as God-breathed, we'll see them as God does, with his compassion. God redeems. After he breaths in life, in the creation story, and his two humans muck up the rules, he comes through with redemption right off. He sews them clothes. He covers their shame. He quells their awkward feelings as they hide in the bushes. We may focus on what went wrong, but this is a story of mercy and redemption.

We can only be sub human if we are see a separated from our dignity, the God part of us that was bestowed by gift. We were lifeless, and he animated us, and we became aware. Then we could freely choose to love or to hate him and what he made.

Will we see others right, and rightly?

Great deep sigh

I FINISHED my term at seminary!

What a breath of exhale today. I have all summer with no class. There is plenty to do. A book proposal, catching up on all the housework, and project pushed aside, design clients, but no academic and reading datelines. That hangs over one's head. So, the great deep sigh of relief is so nice today. The colors are brighter, the sky is clear, and the rain has washed the debris away to a fresher day.


AHHHhhh

Describer and reconciler

I don't think we have to go around convincing people we are right and they are wrong. Even if we really truly feel this is so. I don't think we have to act like it's a battle, even if a really is one. The fact is, if a it is a battle, it is one were it is the strangest kind. It is one were we hope to never hurt our "enemy" (not our enemy at all.) We hope they come and join us. It is Red Rover. Have you played Red Rover?

I think rather than preach, I will describe. I will vision-cast. I will see the future better. I will see it better, because in this Light and with this Love, it is better. From here, the view looks really great. I can see from the mountain. I can see the distant shore. I will describe the land, and the hope, and the Master, and his tender hands, and the way he holds my hands in his.

The points and the counter-points drone on in long debates, but the descriptions of the beautiful Eastern lands, make the eyes shine, the skin flush, and the breath quicken. It's not that the facts aren't important, but it is the faith lived out, seen in community, touched into the life of the truth thirsty, that makes any bit of real difference. We must, as reconcilers, be matching the Reality of the Living Water within, with the parched earth of the hurting world (our neighbors) nearest us.