War of Attrition

Lent approaches. I prepare for it like one settling in for the winter. It will be too hard for me most days. I think we are meant to aspire to a saccharine sort of penitence, the stuff you can write in cards to people you met at summer camp. But Lent usually does me in a bit. It's a war of attrition: me versus my worser nature, pinching one another across the unused sugar bowl. I will probably emerge a better person, but mostly because I will get tired of fighting with myself. Eventually all the quibbling over whether I'm good enough will just piss me off, and in a holy moment of antipathy, I will chuck the china teacup full of spite and self-malice at the cross. It will break there. That's where all bad things come to an end.

I had a weird dream the other day. My old grad school teacher, uber-matriarch of church history and freaking genius, comes to me and says that it's alright; I can let go of my awkwardness and shame and come back to them (the academy- but in the dream it meant more than that; it meant excellence and anything you want to give over to wholly). "Summer, you are just the sort of person who wants a good meal and some money."* Then she called me Sophrosynia, like a feminized version of sophrosyne, the Greek virtue that means self-control, temperance, moderation, that sort of thing. The dream was a sort of self-revelation. Not that I am out for hedonistic pleasures, but that part of me really longs for a good meal- the culture of food and eating together, shared laughter and fruit - and I need to feel secure against poverty. I need those things for balance, and that's okay. At least according to the professor.

Growing up with the reality of being poor is not as hard as growing up with the impression of being poor. Depravity was constantly shoved under my nose. Where would the next meal come from? Would it be worth eating? I felt sick of un-good food. I want a better table for my son and for me and Andrew. And as for money, there is nothing unholy about needing it or wanting it as part of making a life; Jesus just didn't want us seeking it as an end. Poverty only looks pretty in Catholic catalogs of saints and the Heifer International photos of foreign natives.

I have been trying to make something of these questions: What does it mean to have a good meal? Why do I want money? I think of the time my dad [finally - I know this seems sick] beat my mom in public, in a parking lot. I was able at last to run for help, and we got to go to a shelter. It sucked. Not a little. A lot. If you can donate to a shelter for battered women and children, do so. The food was out of date donations from grocery stores. We had no blanket because it was beating season and the beds were full. My sister and I shared a bunk under a piece of plain golden yellow fabric, like the size you might use to make a skirt for a plump woman. But what comes to mind specifically from that time is the ten minutes in our house to collect things when we were sure my dad wasn't home. I raced around trying to find clothes, school stuff, whatever I might "need," and in a moment of foresight, I packed two things of beauty to feed my eyes through those few dreary days. A figurine of a dancer, and iridescent white curling ribbon. I strung the ribbon around the bunk and put the dancer on the steps to the top bunk. When I wanted to scream, I looked at them. My stomach was an aching pit of acid. The taste of stale peanut butter chocolate Kudos stuck to my teeth and made my body cringe in hunger for something better, something nourishing, something fresh and new.

Last week at our church's catechetical membership program, we were discussing service opportunities, specifically the local prison ministry. At this ministry, people from churches in the community go one night a week with foodstuffs and sit at tables. Prisoners come in, get a snack, and sit to talk with the people from the outside. This woman said, "That's how Christ sees us. We're the messed-up person sitting across the table." I get it. I'm that person. The one who is just hungry for a good meal and worries about money. The one with hangnails and a blue streak in her vocabulary. The broken one whose arms are tired. Whose feet stink. Whose house is messy. Whose garden lies untended. Whose letters lie half-finished in a pile. Who is overwhelmed at the prospect of menu planning. Who has seen miracles. Who has walked through hell. Who worries sometimes that love won't change things. The one He's washing. The one He's feeding.




*I also noticed that this echoes A Room of One's Own a bit.