Little Bits of Truth

 

 

This morning's errand running is a lot more fun because someone left WXPN (FM 88.5) on the radio.  The station is playing 885 Countdown- the greatest songs of the new millennium.   You are in for a treat if you check it out today.   http://www.xpn.org/music-artist/885-countdown

 

I forgot how much I like this station.   Great song writers, great singers, some thoughtful lyrics and interesting music composition happening on WXPN.   I am not super partial to music styles as I like just about anything, yet WXPN intrigues me because it's more than fluffy pop tunes and mindless lyrics all day long.

 

As I am driving, tapping my finger on the steering wheel to the beat of the music, I heard phrase after song phrase with the word, God,  or references to Bible stories.  Like 'no one laughs at God'...'deep in the belly of the whale'... 'when God left the ground to circle the world.'   Interesting!  

 

My ears become giant receptors filtering out all other sounds in order to magnify the God speak. Despite so many worries that the world is becoming Godless, that others aren't following the right religion, the right political party, the right way......artists, philanthropists, lovers, theologians, philosophers, scientists and comedians quietly and not-so-quietly go on writing, singing, loving, creating things having to do with 

           

            wonder

 

                                love,

 

                                            God,    

mystery, sometimes even using sacred scriptures or lines from parables and myths.  Sometimes I smile with over what I hear. Sometimes, I question, often I cringe.

 

Yet, I find myself intrigued, happy even, that folks are still writing and pondering God. I like to think God hides God's self in the place few people ever bother to look: deep inside themselves.  Deep inside every single being.  Every one, every thing has a little bit of God, a little bit of Truth. 

 

Following are my two favorite songs from the morning.  The first because I love the lyrics as well as the music and singer's voice.  The second because I have no idea what the song means.  I'd love to hear what you think.

 

Enjoy!

Sharon

 

 

 

 Laughing With

 

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one's laughing at God
When they're starving or freezing or so very poor

 

No one laughs at God
When the doctor calls after some routine tests
No one's laughing at God
When it's gotten real late and their kid's not back from the party yet

 

No one laughs at God
When their airplane starts to uncontrollably shake
No one's laughing at God
When they see the one they love hand in hand with someone else
And they hope that they're mistaken

 

No one laughs at God
When the cops knock on their door
And they say we got some bad news, sir
No one's laughing at God
When there's a famine or fire or flood

 

But God could be funny
At a cocktail party when listening to a good God-themed joke or
Or when the crazies say He hates us
And they get so red in the head you think they're 'bout to choke

 

God could be funny
When told he'll give you money if you just pray the right way
And when presented like a genie who does magic like Houdini
Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus
God can be so hilarious

 

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one's laughing at God
When they've lost all they've got and they don't know what for

 

No one laughs at God
On the day they realize that the last sight they'll ever see
Is a pair of hateful eyes
No one's laughing at God
When they're saying their goodbyes

 

But God could be funny
At a cocktail party when listening to a good God themed joke or
Or when the crazies say He hates us
And they get so red in the head you think they're 'bout to choke

God could be funny
When told he'll give you money if you just pray the right way
And when presented like a genie who does magic like Houdini
Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus
God can be so hilarious

 

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war

No one laughing at God in a hospital
No one's laughing at God in a war
No one's laughing at God
When they're starving or freezing or so very poor

 

No one's laughing at God
No one's laughing at God
No one's laughing at God
We're all laughing with God

 

Songwriter:
Regina Spektor

 

~~~

 

Boy With A Coin

 

Boy with a coin he found in the weeds
with bullets and pages of trade magazines
close to a car THAT flipped on the turn
when God left the ground to circle the world

Hey--- Oh----

Girl with a bird she found in the snow
that flew up her gown, and that's how she knows
that God made her eyes for crying at birth
then left the ground to circle the earth

Hey--- Oh----

Boy with a coin he crammed in his jeans
then making a wish, and tossed in the sea
then walked to a town that all of us burned
when God left the ground to circle the world

Hey--- Oh----
Hey--- Oh----
                             Iron and Wine

Pumpkin Patch Outhouse

No, no, NO!  No ucky potties!” 

 

Three year old Railynn has no holding power left.  She wails loudly as tears fall in torrents down her sun reddened cheeks.  We are standing in front of two port-a-potties.  Rae loudly repeats her disdain for ucky potties just in case I hadn’t heard.  She is very close to meltdown.  She has to go badly and she will not, under any circumstances, go in a port-a-potty.  Even standing near one dissolves her into a puddle of horror. I remember utter dread of our cabin outhouse, when I was little, so I sympathize.

I'm horrified now too, for other reasons.  Not only am I baffled about what to do, but I can’t believe we’re reliving this exact port-a-potty drama from last year's foray into the pumpkin patch.  Back then, her 2yr old wails flustered me so much I was almost rendered useless.  It happened near the end of our adventure so we just made a mad dash home after foiled attempts to find relief. 

This year, I reminded her about the no bathroom policy at the pumpkin patch and she made sure I observed how she took care of business before getting in the car.

And yet, here we are in front of the ugly boxes of dungeon-toilets.  Again.  Again, I am pondering the options. Duck into the corn field and risk getting chased out by the barrel train driver like last year.  No thank you! Have her squat right in front of the port-a-potty. Don’t think so. Tell her to hold it, and hope she can!  

Stupidly, I choose the last option.

“Oh Rae, I’m so sorry but if you can’t go in the port-a-potty, you’ll have to hold it.” I lead her away from the horrid outhouses.  She cries harder.

“The gwass, Nana, I’ll pee in the gwass. Wite here, Nana, please, I can just go in the gwass.” 

“Railynn, you can’t just pee on the grass.”

But, I’m so tempted.  Thoughts ping pong in my head.   Who cares if a little kid pees on the grass?  She’s three; not two anymore – there’s less grace for a 3yr old. What is worse – a 3yr old girl going on the grass or wetting herself in public?  People will think I’m an incompetent grandma.  People will know it’s an emergency. It’s only been an hour since she went potty back at my place – she can hold it.   

We make it halfway up the barn hill. Ahead of us the open barn is full of kids slopping paint or blasting glue all over pumpkins, covering them with color, pompoms, pipe cleaners and sequins. I make eye contact with Papaw, imploring him –please help!-  he shakes his head.  He’s busy juggling 6yr old Avery’s demands for exotic paint colors with toddler Jude’s desire to pull the glued pompoms off other kids’ pumpkins.  

Rae yanks me to a stop, pulls at her jeans and screams.

“Nana, wite now, I have to go wite now!! ” 

I’m in a panic. We're too far gone to dash home. I glance around desperately – there has to be creative way to end to this crisis. To our left is the hay tunnel.  No, don't even think about that.  She won’t go in there anyway, without a flashlight.  To our right is the food stand, no possibilities there. Behind us is the barrel train. One part of my brain frantically scrambles for a solution, another part is paralyzed like I'm the one about to wet myself. Who is watching this melodrama?  Are the sweaty, tired moms and dads noticing and feeling my pain?  Are the other grandparents tsk, tsking?  

Suddenly, I don’t care about anyone but my grand-daughter.  I know exactly what to do. I march her down the barn hill and tell her to sit in the grass.

“Wait one second, honey,” I say as I quickly arrange some things.

“Huwway,  I have to go weally, weally bad. Huwway.”

I shield her left side with Jude’s diaper bag, and use my own body to shield her right side.  Her backside is shielded by the bank of the barn hill.  She helps me wriggle her clothes down and out of the way.  

“Ok, GO.” I smile encouragingly. 

“I’m going Nana, I’m going,” she sighs.

She smiles up at me all adoration and gratitude. 

My heart melts.  What a pathetic piece of grandmother, I am sometimes! This beloved tiny person is only three but she knows her body.   How can I be more concerned with propriety, or what others’ think, than her body wisdom.  Of course I’m not saying propriety is unimportant.   I’m just chagrined at how I just encouraged this little one to ignore body signals or feel ashamed of them.  I remember how I used to postpone my body’s needs for rest, nourishment, water, exercise, relief, solitude or stillness in order to be ultra-polite and not inconvenience anyone.  

By now, the young guy driving the garden tractor that pulls the kiddie barrel cars strains his neck to look our way.  Thankfully, there are no kids waiting to ride the train or parents lolling about. It’s only the driver gawking. I smile and wave, then make a big display of getting the diaper changing pad out of the diaper bag. He quickly looks away. He owed me a favor for ratting us out of the cornfield last year. 

Next year, if the grand kids want to do the pumpkin patch again, I’ll come with my own options.  Rae could wear pull ups (that might be a meltdown of another kind)  She could wear a long, pleated skirt. If she has to go, we’re walking behind the port-a-potty. There she’ll squat as I spread the skirt all around her and we’ll pretend to look at an incredibly cool caterpillar crawling on the ground.  If a long, pleated skirt, sized 4, can't be found, there’s always my beach sarong. 

Come to think of it, I'm signed up for a pilgrimage in two years.  A three day walk through French fields and woods.   No bathrooms or port-a-potties available there either.  I just might want to start looking for an extra wide, pleated skirt for myself.

 Cheers! 

Sharon