self-contempt

What a shock it is to trace back problems social, spiritual, emotional, occupational, or otherwise in and around me, (with myself and others) all the way back to self-contempt. That, or pride, which is rather the a kind of funhouse mirror image are really the main things going on. Both are sin, if you will. The type that is both human (and not making us worthless) but unavoidable, brokenness that cries out to be whole and remedied, and, of course, one always hopes, forgiven. One wants to be spared, even from one's self, if possible, sometimes. But I don't know if we realize this "why" of how we suffer silently, or very loudly, or drag others into our perils and haunts. This odd barb of contempt is just under the skin, but with little, or big, veins into the deep of us, the muscle of our hearts, sometimes hurting and squeezing us.

So, I wonder at the hugeness of it sometimes. The cloud of it, and it's great undoing. I push breathlessly against it, if truth be told, far too much than I have been aware. And much more than I wish too. And I am beginning a journey to untie knots, even if my fingers callous and bleed.

Appraisals

We had our house appraised. In seven years, it's done well.

I've been thinking it doesn't translate to people. It's not really the same on the human level to the stuff of the soul, the whole person. People age, deteriorate, and beyond that on the interior, even with great effort people often don't improve 35%, 45% percent or better in seven years, do they? If they are not trying to get better, my guess is that they indeed depreciate. Like dairy, they "go bad." How much does the human character improve in two years, or five? How much does spiritual formation develop in a normal year for a well-fed, pampered, indulgent American? The church fathers and mothers wrote that suffering and struggle were often helpful for improvement.

Of course it's hard to gauge improvement quantifiably, and I don't really believe it is most important. My point is to say, we can't let our homes of wood and stone out due us, accumulating advantage with time, and getting better with age as we regress in some ways.

How would you appraise yourself, in all honesty? (How would I?) If you had a camera attached on you, unaware for a week, how would viewers appraise you? (I'm thinking about this for me too.)

Etta Marie's intervention - (End of Part 1)

Barry and Jackie filed to the rocky lookout near Etta Marie. She couldn't hear them over the crashing waves. It was her birthday, and 365 stones filled her mason jar.

"Your gig is up Etta," shouted Barry.

Etta whirled around and smiled, bumping her jar over between her outstretched legs. Jackie replaced the pebbles in the jar and sat down. Barry bent down and handed her a wrapped gift. "We know what you've been doing," he said.

"What do you mean?" said Etta Marie gaping at them.

"We know you swallow these all year," said Jackie." Etta pulled in her chin and closed her mouth tight. "We figured it out. . .We're going to stop you. It's not a good idea, Etta," Jackie finished.

"It's just some fiber," Etta laughed. She pressed her hand over the top of the jar. They watched some birds alight from the rocks and circle from the waves to the land.

"No, it's pain," said Barry. "You're not alone, Etta. We love you." Etta Marie looked far out into the water, into the golden sunset.

"I think I have to do this, you two," she sighed.

"Listen," shuttered Barry, "Keep collecting them, I mean, if that makes you feel safe. Then give them to me, and I'll keep them. At the end of a year, we'll take a ride and put them somewhere together."

"We got you this," said Jackie tapping the jar.

Etta Marie fumbled with the wrapping paper until it released a mason jar with hot tamale candies inside. "There are 365 in there," Barry muttered through the side of his mouth. Etta Marie grinned and set down the new jar next to her own jar.

"You're taking care of me," she said

"You've been taking care of us for a while, Etta." said Jackie. Barry nodded and shoved his hands deep into his cutoff shorts.




THE END