Love-Lambs

"Taking it all in," means different things for different people. Consider the great island of Manhattan. Some visit awestruck by the architecture and the swarms of bodies climbing into the same subway car.  We might, for example, count how many languages we've heard while perusing the MET, or how many indie-bohemian-chic boutiques hem in Brooklyn's corner. Others are more inclined to feel the energy, experience the rush, or ponder the meaning of one's small self between the hustle and flow of this insomniac of a city. Regardless of our processing preference, I've found most never fail to mention the pizza. Let's be honest- food is a sincere love. 

Which is why I'm writing tonight.  About sincere love.  Like pizza which is most concretely cheese and tomato and starch, and most abstractly an Italian art form, love is best when it's both.  It's entirely simple (mozz+tomato+bread) and entirely complex (who knows anything about Italian cooking?). Give me a brick oven pizzeria in the West Village and a four cheese pie? "Buon Appetito!" I'm in love. 

I haven't found him (you know, not to be cheesy but, "the one,") yet, but I tell myself he is coming as quick as he can. And maybe, just maybe, the hold-up has to do with the fact that he's been stumped by this mozzarella of a mystery too. I once experienced a break-up/breaking off/ending of a dear relationship (read: most painful), in which I pleaded with this person who didn't love me back to tell me why he ever referred to us as "we" if in fact, he didn't love me the way I loved him.  I know it sounds pathetic, but it was the real thing.  He would always talk about OUR plans and where WE were going and what WE would do and how WE were different than everyone else. Did he not understand the significance of these pronouns? "Everybody wants a we!" I cried to him.  It was sad. As he shook his head, I felt bare and I never wanted to see him again.  We did not go together anymore.

 

And that's what it comes down to doesn't it?  Belonging.  Even before the philosophical truth that love is this astoundingly simple and complex wonder of a thing like light or wind or water, we first understand that we belong to our beloved.  I am yours, you are mine. Not like a possessive ownership thing.  Ugh, no. Then it gets all objectified and twisted and narcissistic. But a BElonging, the long-awaited peace tailor-made to fit your longing.

 

I have found myself, these past few weeks, increasingly grateful for the complexity of my God's love for me. He is Abba Father, and Messiah King and Counselor Friend and the Captivated Lover of my soul.  Some nights, I am in such great awe that I might lift up my hands, or open my heart, or pray for purpose with greater purity and gumption than the night before.  Or quite simply, I might just thank Him that He is my shepherd and I am His lamb, and He is gentle with my stubborn bleating self. And I will roll over and sleep well. We cannot help but be found by the depth of His love. It seeks us out, beckoning, "Come, come, you belong with me."   What sweeter words do we know?

The Arc Camp and Amelie

I have a knack for winding up in really random arrangements. The startling thing is, I usually don't realize that it's a little odd until I'm up to my neck in a pickle, realizing that I should have run while it was pooling at my ankles.  If this sounds concerning, it's really not. It's more just funny. I am wide-eyed and chatty and a bit of an open book, but not altogether naive and reliant on friends who say things like, "Sarah, if it's weird after fifteen minutes, you don't have to do it."  (dear friends, thank you for that, by the way)

During my school/work limbo, it was through such a roundabout way that I worked at the ARC camp with special needs children.  Hey, I thought, I like little ones, and while I didn't have experience with this particular population, I felt confident.  If you promise not to pass judgement, I'll tell you that I never felt particularly drawn to working with special needs children, so I saw this opportunity as a means to render a match. For better or for worse, I can be pushy with myself that way. Sometimes it makes life rich, sometimes after much hammering, I realize that "oh yes, square pegs really do not fit in round holes." 

I admit, I am ashamed that in working with these campers, I ever imagined I could make anything happen at all.  A bit embarrassed that I actually thought, "oh let me use my skills to provide them services." 

Well, when I type it out like that, it really doesn't seem so shameful now does it? After all, that is why one gets hired for a service position, and helpers in particular always experience this sort of rub.  I guess, as I am processing, the greater issue was that I marched (first faux-pas, never "march," it's obnoxious), right into my camp counseling duties and forwent opening myself up to them.  Unknowns are daunting and sometimes that very human diffidence is easily compensated for by control. But, let's do ourselves a favor and try to learn from the newness rather than keep it in line. I am not preaching.  Hindsight is 20/20.

On day # 1 of camp I still was so arrogant as to assume that my expectations might be the real thing.  By day # 2 I realized I was wrong, not to mention I was plum tuckered out.  By day # 3 I was ready to quit.  The past 72 hours had been marked by tantrums, dirty nine year old diapers, food allergies and compulsive swearing that made me wonder whether or not a mis-diagnosis had occurred. Terrets, perhaps?  Truly, I had never seen or heard anything like it. Oh yeah, add in 100 degree heat.  Every. Single. Day. My life felt as repetitive as all get-out.  Like a nightmarish routine.  And I think routines in general are nightmarish, even without tantrums and food allergies. 

One day, mid-June, I came home from camp in desperate need of a hug, chocolate and a glass of wine. Apparently, I also needed to watch the movie Amelie. If you've never seen it, please do. It's artsy and eloquent and wonderful. It spoke to me that sweaty June day because of a particular clip explaining Amelie's desire to help.  Helping, for Amelie, has to do with a) love and b) simplicity.  Nothing more, nothing less. She does not seem overburdened by deep care or deep concern, she just follows a pull to give of herself, and nothing has ever been easier. She keeps to her pure little way and it is lovely. 

I tried to carry this with me the next day at camp.  You know why? Because Amelie fit so perfectly with the Arc Camp.   Here I was, given this great opportunity to help in a very simple sort of way in part, because I was working with very simple individuals. I was doing quite menial tasks, but if I was patient, and present, and if, for one little boy, I drew 28 hamster wheels, life was perfect.  The next moment it might be imperfect, but then I drew hamster wheel #29 and it was perfect again. 

I had been furrowing my brow far too much about what to do and why to do it and how long the tantrum would last.  This tantrum was lasting, yes, but it would also pass, and in the meantime, my hand was on his shoulder. 

And a hush:

You are loved. You are touchable.  You are human and you are worthy. 

To my Arc campers: Thanks for loving me back.  You are dear, and far more patient than I.