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

Etta Marie, Spiritual Consultant

"Talk me out of giving up church, Etta Maire."

"I thought you said you were 'between churches'?" Etta Marie said glancing toward Jackie. She slouched into the sofa and toyed with her half-empty stemware.

"It's more like I'm between a rock and a hard place," said Jackie. She spread a glob of brie on a piece of bread, and swooped it into her mouth with one athletic motion. "You've been there. I mean, in my situation. You'd give it up, probably, right? You would have too, hiding out down here."

"I'm between Sundays, not between churches."

"You don't go to church down here, at the beach, fibber!" said Jackie through her bread.

"Every day is church, babe," Etta Marie shot back through the echo of her glass as it tipped into her mouth. She laughed, and then slowly wiped her mouth dry on a cloth napkin. "It's not the building, Jackie. It's not the guy at the front of the stadium seating. It's not what you get out of it."

"After a while, it is."

"Well, then maybe you're being selfish."

"Etta, didn't you ever just what to be fed, and think, "What am I doing here?"

"For a while I did, once, yes, but that's what I'm saying. It's not okay. Like I told you at Gilmore House, I was thinking backwards. It's not an Etta Marie world. It's not a Jackie Mayer world," Etta folded her hands and let out air through her nose. "I -- I know that's not so nice to say it like that. I just mean, we're here to minister, not get something. Worship and serve. Love God and love others."

"You're forgetting about growth, learning, and Christian education. The church is suppose to do that. That's the job of the church, of the pastor."

"Not really."

"How can you say that?!" Jackie waved her hands.

"We can find mentors. We can read books. We can be responsible for our own growth. There are ministries and resources for that everywhere. We don't have to be spoon-fed from the pulpit. Plus, disciple-making never happens there very much. It happens life-to-life, in the real world, not at a distance with sermons.

"I don't think too many people at my church care about that, i mean being disciples. That's hard work. It just gets too tough."

"That's why you have to take someone on and disciple her--show her why it matters to grow spiritually. Show someone the reality of a living faith in your Rescuer."

"Etta, Why are you telling me all this? You've been to my church, I thought you would just say, "find a good fit." And what's going on with you? Why are you hiding out down here anyway?"

Etta Marie stood up and stretched and then yawned. The room was pink with sunset. Jackie shook her head and started collecting food wrappings and silverware from the coffee table. Etta Marie moved over to the window where the view of the surf was white and low. The soft sound was muted until she pried open the sliding door. It blotted out the noise of the ceiling fan, soft music, and the conversation still hanging in the room. She crossed her arms and turned to Jackie, as she eyed her jar of stones, resting on the kitchen island.

"The truth is, Jackie, I'm on a Sabbatical, of sorts. I need time to rest, think, learn, and pray. I need quiet too. In every way I need some quiet."

Jackie nodded."You're not going to green light my leaving."

"No." She looked at the floor. "But, you know that they need you there. You know you have to bloom where you are planted."

"Why does the right thing to do always seem like the much harder route? Shouldn't it be 50/50 for the sake of odds? Or 40/60? I'd take that."

"I know."

"I guess you do need a break. You've never given yourself time to get away for a long time." Jackie put the dirty dishes in the sink and leaned on the counter.

"I have to collect some stones too."

"Really?"

"Yep. I've never told anybody this, but every year I collect 365 small stones at the beach. It's like ritual."

"That's cool."

"Not really."

"Why not.

"Never mind."

"What?"

"One secret admission at a time, okay?"

"Um. Okay, weirdo."

"I'll tell you. I just have to work a few things out first."

"It's okay, Etta. Whenever you're ready."

The Adventures of Etta Marie- entry 7

Never underestimate an underdog. When cornered an underdog can surprise you, and turn the tables. Underdogs are counted out usually, so they don't have confidence to render them delusional, like their rivals. What they can have though is heart, and heart can trump ego. Heart is really just guts and drive. It doesn't need ego, it gets by unawares, without celebration, because it is raw courage and strength of spirit bundled, fighting for its life.

Etta Maire always routed for underdogs. Football dynasties, trash-talking champs always rubbed her raw. Not just in sports, but in the everyday places too. The thing that made it right in the end, was the surprise ending--the frequent loser, finally wins.

Did Etta Marie always feel this way? Not really. But, she had seen enough bullying of various kinds to change her philosophy of life a certain way. The day Billy LaBow got a nose bled at kickball when Johnny Sinclair and Benny Staub called him a "whimp" and a "gaywad", punching their fists into his face over and over. Her mouth tasted like a battery. As horrid as it was, she was so glad to not be the object of the fury, not to stand out. Billy was being punished for everything that was weak and inferior in the world, and everyone in 4th grade seemed to know it. No one helped Billy. They all watched. He took the blows, then the kicks. He grabbed a fist of pebbles, the other hand clawed the ground and then quit. He stopped fighting back.

It was a horror. But, they all had a part. Billy's mom took him home, and he never came back to school. Johnny, Benny, Etta, and all the 4th graders had ruined Billy, the underdog. Since then, Etta Marie had kept a special eye out looking for them, trying to spot them, though still too afraid to protect them. That came later in various ways, some big and some small.

Etta Marie goes on vacation

"If you vacation long enough, you don't get the urge to sell your things and relocate," Etta said.

"You might be right. But, have you thought about how you can tie up all your business here for three months?" said Jackie.

They morning light was ambient and golden, and a thick mist covered most of the rooftops. They sipped their coffee from their sixteenth floor perch. Etta Marie nodded and pointed to her trusty laptop. Jackie threw up an eyebrow and took another long sip.

"It's that easy?"

"Well, I have to pawn off my dog walking, but yes, technology is my friend," Etta muttered. "I'm set on going underground, but not off the grid."

"A contradiction of terms!" said Jackie, pounding the arm of her chair.

"Maybe."

"Well, I'm visiting you and you can't stop me. You can't deny me the beach. I am a born sun worshiper."

"You gotta serve somebody! Of course, you can come see me. I don't feel used at all."

"Stop it," Jackie hissed in play.

"Two weeks without friends, and I'll probably crawl out of my skin. You know me. I'll plan beach parties. No worries, Jackie."

"Glad to hear it."

Etta Marie glanced at her jar of stones. There were only 11 left. Time was running out, and it felt like hourglass sands falling into the growing pit in her stomach. She still missed her father. He always smelled of sea winds. His shaggy beard filled with saltiness would brush hard kisses on her cheeks after each afternoon of fishing. he would place a few shells into her hand and his face would wrinkle into laughter and good favor. All those years, and still the pang of grief felt like the throb of a toothache in her middle when she thought of him.

"Hello?"

"What?" said Etta stirring to life.

"You glazed over."

"I think I went on vacation already!"

City Mouse Country Mouse

In the country Etta Marie longed for the excitement and bustle of the the city. Each visit to the publishing house, or to see a play felt like an adventure, but also like she was missing out on something--something that was going on without her while she was gone. Her farmhouse, once the perfect retreat for writing and escaping the world felt cold and lonesome, and far too isolated, so when a rent controlled apartment opportunity opened up, she jumped at the chance to live in the teaming habitat of the Big City.

Now she realized she didn't like people very much. Hoards of People. Also, people in the city avoided each other, although they purposefully lived near each other, or on top of each other. She wished for time away from them, and their noises, and squabbles, and nonsense. Dogs barking; people fighting and yelling at each other, and about their problems; horns, alarms, and sirens going off--it was all so much, and so often. She wondered if she was really a country mouse who like to visit the city, and not a city mouse at all. There was plenty to do, but the time to do it was not there like she thought it would be. When it was, she wanted solitude, more than she wanted to fight crowds, and stand in lines.

It was a paradox, her life. Etta Marie gathered her manuscripts on her lap and continued working, and looked outside to see rain starting to fall against the window. She wasn't quite sure if she had a gypsy heart, or if she was just terribly malcontent, or maybe just had not found her place in the world. In college, she lived in a small town, adjacent to bumpkins; in childhood, she lived far off in the wilds; and she traveled after college around the world. Maybe she was bitten by a kind of bug of wanderlust. One thing was sure, the suburbs were not the answer. Etta Marie grew up in the suburbs, as a teenager, and she never wanted to try that again. Where was the safe place to fall? Of should she keep her bags packed?

Etta Marie grabbed the newspaper and flipped to the classifieds.

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.