6

The number is 6.

6: the number of gnats resting (and puking and pooping and sneezing and farting and eating and fornicating no doubt) on my toothbrush this morning

6: the number of cans of Raid that have been discharged in my kitchen in just the last month

6: the number of houses for sale that I gazed sadly at today thinking, "they probably don't have gnats in there"

6: the current number of ways I can think of to kill myself if this bug situation does not reach a speedy resolution

The post below was supposed to have been posted May 17. You'll notice that it is now June 7 and I'll have you know. . . the situation has grown even more dire. Imagine, for a moment, that it is mid-May and unusually cool in Saint Louis.

Gnats 2.0

Seriously?!

Seriously.

Not only have they returned, but I'm not entirely sure they ever left.

It is only May. 4 long, hot months are staring back at me. Laughing. Knowing that they've already won and that I will resign myself, once again, to living in a gnat infested house.

We've added a dog and a 12 year old since the last round. Maybe we are ready for a more brutal fight now.

Or maybe I'm even more exhausted and will give up before the fight even starts.

It remains to be seen.


Now.

Imagine that it is June and the temperature threatens to reach 100 degrees before summer even officially begins. Think about the sweat that pools in every crease and crevice of your body (I'll spare you the gruesome details). It's hot. Like, really hot.

Imagine that there is a swarm of gnats not only near the garbage can or fruit (which is, of course, no longer kept on the counter. We've even eliminated the counter-kept bananas from our diet, resulting in dangerously low levels of potassium and a pervasive crankiness) but in the shower, at the kitchen table, and even, sadly, in your bedroom.

Imagine now that you have just cracked open yet another can of Raid and hosed down the kitchen and you are wondering just how serious they are about this being bad for animals and small humans.

Imagine that you have embraced serenity to such an extent that you sigh and call the exterminator AGAIN without even considering putting your head in the oven or changing zip codes.

If you made it through that last bit you are a far more evolved human than I.

We've called the exterminator. We've sprayed every inch of the house with a potpourri of chemicals. I've filled tiny dishes with vinegar, poured ammonia down the drains, stopped eating bananas, scoured every surface.

I'm exhausted.

I've even tried to accept the little f*$@ers and come to some peace with their presence.

I've tried. I really have. But no.

Things have gotten worse.

At the risk of sounding a bit whiny or (gasp) self-centered and pitiful, I'd like to introduce you to my new friend.



Yep. We've added a brown recluse invasion to the wonders of our home. Thus far we've killed two in the hallway, one in Jordan's room, one in the bathroom, one in the kitchen, and one in the bedroom shortly after it dismounted my leg.

Yes. My LEG!! Because I apparently was not having enough trouble with the gnats and the heat. I also had to be assaulted - ok fine, threatened - by a poisonous spider. In my bed.

No, it didn't bite me. Yes, I'm fine albeit a bit dramatic.

I will typically carry my burdens with a smile. I will be that enlightened individual who sighs, breathes, and picks up the phone, nonplussed. I might even chuckle.

Most days.

But that spider scurrying up my leg was my complete and total undoing. I cracked. I sobbed. Not because I was afraid of the spider (puhleeze) but because it was suddenly all just too much.

And so I whined and whimpered and cried.

And now I rant.

And hope for your sympathy and pest control tips.

So what shall I do?

Evacuate? Bomb it? Do a special chant/dance combo at midnight under a full moon? sacrifice one of the children?

I'm open to suggestions. However outlandish. Because, seriously, something's gotta give.

P.S. Please don't call DFS . . . I promise that it is an otherwise lovely, healthy home.

There is only us.

A few weeks ago, I had the incredible privilege of hearing Father Gregory Boyle, founder of Homeboy Industries, speak here in St Louis. His talk focused on creating a sense of kinship and mutuality. He pointed to the lyrics of O Holy Night - "Long lay the world in sin and error pining. Till He appeared and the Spirit felt its worth." And that's it - in kinship and mutuality, our spirits/souls feel their worth. I don't think it a mistake that the song later cries "Fall on your knees! O hear, the angel voices" for there is no more humbling, awe-some experience than meeting another in the beauty of our creation, our humanity.

If you are willing to stand in the margins, be present on the edges, and connect, you will find there is a mutuality there, a beauty that cannot be described. There is no us and them, there is only us.

There are moments that leave you crying on a classroom floor, watching as two devastated young people walk back to the hotel where they are living hand in hand, the despair on a young woman's face as she sits abandonned in a condemned apartment, the humility that you find at the laundromat later that night. These are scenes that move me, wake me, remind me. The moments when I see God in the margins, in the alleys, and on the faces of those who so many would rather turn away. To love them when they cannot/do not love themselves. The stories told with their lives are stories of disconnect and separation.

Whether it is drugs, alcohol, crime, violence, victimization or the age old story of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, there is a hopelessness that descends on us when we disconnect. When we begin to see that vast expanse between you and me, we lose something of our soul's worth. We lose something of this 'us', of this mutuality and kinship.

I am tasked each day with connecting. My job description is filled with tasks, responsibilities, roles. But really, what I get to do is connect. Sure, I could do my job without such connection. I could provide services, facilitate training, write case notes and manage programs. But I would be missing out. I have no interest in seeing where this "population I serve" is so different than me, but where I see my own heart break. Where we become one in this humanity. Where we connect with the divine in our suffering and in our love. To use Father G's words: "I defy you to identify who is the service provider and who is the recipient."

Each day, I encounter incredible strength and courage, I sit with crushing despair and shame, I draw open eyes that have been so long down turned. And I am connected. There is only us and there is a sense that we belong to one another.

My soul feels its worth.

Where do you feel your soul's worth?

What does kinship mean in your life? How do you come together and belong to one another?

This passion drives me. This work (can I call it that?) shapes me. And I continue to dream of this kinship and connection. Inspired daily by others who feel it and also dream of creating communities where each soul knows its worth. Where each one is valued and served by another. Where together we create opportunities for restoration and education and compassion. Boundless compassion.


I'm starting the book this afternoon. I hope you'll consider reading along.







Here is a glimpse at what Father Boyle is doing out there in California. What might we do here?